


Ghazal

by Snowgrouse, versaphile



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Arabian Nights Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bondage, Cheetahs, Daddy Kink, Dreams, Epic, F/F, Graphic Violence, Harem, Historical, M/M, Master/Slave, Medieval Persia, Middle Ages, Multi, Mysticism, Poetry, Rumi, Sex Magic, Sex Toys, Spiritual, Spiritual sex, The Golden Age of Islam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 112,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor runs away once again, but he cannot escape himself. He and the Master find each other in a distant province of medieval Persia, where the Master has sown the seeds of his ambitions. There, they must learn both rebirth and victory can only come through surrender and sacrifice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>The time has come to turn your heart into a temple of fire.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Your essence is gold hidden in dust.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>To reveal its splendor you need to burn in the fire of love.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"When we get out of here, I'm going to kill you for this."

"Death threats? Are you actually so desperate you're stealing my lines?"

" _Master_ ," the Doctor growls, his anger edged with panic. 

The Master pulls sharply on the rope that leads down from around the Doctor's neck. "I don't think you understand the delicacy of your situation. Be grateful that saving your hide is more interesting to me than the alternative."

The Doctor starts to sputter one of his usual ridiculous protests, but manages to shut up when the slave dealer returns. 

"Well? You going to buy him or not?" the dealer asks, almost bored. He waves at a buzzing fly and sniffs.

The Master looks the Doctor up and down, a sceptical buyer. "What was it? One hundred dirhams?"

"Two hundred," the dealer corrects, eyes sharpening now that he can sense a haggle.

" _Two hundred_?" the Master says, outraged. "Look how scrawny he is. I'll be lucky to get half a day's work out of him. He's not worth more than a hundred."

The Doctor's eyes bug urgently. The Master wishes he could draw this out longer, just to make him writhe.

"Not worth a hundred?" the dealer says, his turn to be outraged now. "He is worth four hundred! He's young, strong. You'll get years of work out of him. Two hundred is almost giving him away."

The Master's eyes narrow. "Ah. Then there _is_ something wrong with him?"

The dealer frowns. "Nothing a good twenty lashes wouldn't fix. He needs taming. He talks back, tries to escape." He leans towards the Master, lowering his voice. "But a man like you wants to break a slave with his own hands. Better to buy them wild." He smiles knowingly.

The Master smiles back. "I'll give you a hundred and fifty."

The dealer glares at the Doctor. No doubt he's eager for the sale, just to get the troublesome slave off his hands. But he puts on a show of being torn, then offers, "A hundred eighty."

"Done." The Master grins. He carefully counts out each coin, enjoying the greed in the dealer's eyes. The man almost snatches the bag of coins from the Master's hand.

The Master takes hold of the rope again, this time winding the end of it around his hand. It's thick and rough, stronger than the rope the other slaves wear. The Doctor's wrists are bound behind his back with tight coils of it. He's naked except for a short loincloth and there are faded whipmarks on his back. 

"I let you out of my sight and look what happens," the Master tuts.

"Just get me out of here," the Doctor hisses.

"Not yet. I haven't done my shopping."

The town market is busy and crowded. The Doctor is tugged along as the Master browses, buying some bread, dried meat, fruit. The Master is dressed in rich clothes with a scimitar at his waist, and knows the merchants are jacking up their prices in response. But it's not like he cares about something so trivial as _gold_. 

"What a fine slave, sir." 

The Master turns to find a woman selling furs and leathers. "A fine slave should wear more than cheap rope."

The Doctor is visibly embarrassed, which is all the more reason to play along. "And what would you recommend?" the Master asks.

She points to an array of strips of tanned leather. "These leathers are very strong, and will not fray like dealer's rope."

The Master selects one and examines it. It's solid work, with fine detailing and a bronze buckle.

The woman looks at the Doctor, admiring his form, and sees the whipmarks. "If you have need of extra security, we have these options as well." She holds out a set of sheaths. "Very effective in binding the arms. Good for travel. Will your journey be long?"

"Long enough." The Master inspects the sheaths. "May I?" he asks.

"Certainly, sir. If your slave will kneel here..." She gestures to a curtained area behind the stall, and nods to her assistant to take over the table 

As he's guided over, the Doctor glares at the Master, looking about ready to bolt rather than endure the public humiliation the Master is putting him through. The Master stares back, not backing down; he has the key to the TARDIS, and running away would get the Doctor nowhere. Besides, the Master went through a lot of trouble rescuing him. The Doctor owes him the entertainment.

"Kneel, slave," the Master orders, casually.

The Doctor kneels. The Master hands the woman the leash, and crouches down behind the Doctor to remove the rope. It was wound tight enough to bite into his skin, and left spiralling red marks all down his forearms. The Master gives them a cursory rub, and then slides on the leather sheaths. Straps hang from each side, and join to hold the Doctor's arms together behind his back, the buckles out of reach of his hands to prevent escape. 

"As you see, it is much more secure, and will not damage the flesh as ropes do," the woman says, clearly as much a capitalist as the slave dealer.

The Master nods, touching the leather admiringly.

"Will you be keeping him indoors?" she asks.

"Indoors?"

"Will he be working in the fields, or as a house slave?"

"Ah," the Master says, understanding. "Definitely a house slave," he says, gazing lewdly at the Doctor's thighs. 

The woman pauses, and then says, "Of course. You may be interested in our specialties."

"Hm?" The Master looks up, and sees her pulling out two trays from beneath the table. She uncovers the first, revealing collars and leashes similar to the ones on the table, but much more ornately decorated, and clearly not meant to be worn by a field slave. The Master selects one and holds it against the Doctor's neck. The Doctor stares at the ground, his lips pressed in a thin line, his cheeks pink under his freckles. His hands are fists, peeking out from beneath the sheaths.

The Master leans close to him. "Run away, and I'll let them keep you," he mutters, warning, and then removes the rope from his neck. The Doctor stays still, back and shoulders tensed, breathing shallow. As the leather wraps around his neck, he swallows and closes his eyes. The Master buckles it into place, and smoothes out the long leash that trails down from the front.

"A wonderful choice, sir. It suits him," she says, voice quiet, as if they were far away from the noisy marketplace. She draws back the cloth from the second tray, and their eyes meet. Even in a bazaar like this, such things are not openly sold. But the wise merchant knows which customers to offer to.

Silently, the Master removes the loincloth from around the Doctor's hips, leaving him naked but for the leathers. The Doctor's eyes open wide, and then wider as he sees the items on the tray. The Master puts a firm hand on the Doctor's shoulder, reminding him that he has no choice but to let this happen.

As the Master takes one of the items, he reflects that the woman has yet to offer any prices.

The Doctor's cock is soft as the Master grips it. He gives a few idle strokes, watching as the Doctor's breath catches, goes from shallow to ragged. The chastity belt goes on in stages: first the curved bronze tube that sheaths his cock, and the attached ring that encircles the root of his balls. Leather straps in front and back take the weight of the bronze, secured to a belt low around his waist. A silk-lined, suede pouch covers the genitals completely, and protects them from movement.

"Discreet," the Master observes.

"Discretion is a valuable quality," the woman replies. "Most men seek chastity for their women, but not all. You are familiar with these?"

The Master smirks at the sight of the Doctor bound and leashed, his cock trapped. It's a shame they haven't got one of those tiny padlocks, but with the Doctor's wrists bound, knots and buckles are secure enough. Besides, the Master has more control over him than any lock could provide. "Oh yes," he agrees. 

The Doctor is quietly furious, but the Master doesn't really care as long as he keeps his mouth shut.

The Master has the Doctor stand, and dresses him in his loincloth again. It gives just enough modesty to cover the belt and pouch. The cheap cloth is shabby next to the fine leather, and the Master considers a replacement. But that can be taken care of later.

There's no haggling this time. He pays handsomely for the Doctor's adornments, and thanks the woman before taking the Doctor by his leash and leading him back out into the market. One of his servants is waiting there, keeping an eye on the horses. He greets the Master and prepares the horses for their journey.

The Doctor frowns, suspicious. "Since when did you have servants and horses?"

"Since I felt like having them." The Master hands his purchases to his servant to store in the saddlebags, and takes out a flask of water. "It's an hour's ride to the camp. Drink this."

The Doctor's frown deepens. "Why should I?"

"Because if you faint and fall off the horse, you'll break your neck."

"Bet you'd like that," the Doctor mutters, petulant.

The Master sighs. "Why would I kill you now, after going through all the effort of getting you back? So little trust."

"I _trusted_ you before. You drugged me and stranded me in the middle of the Persian desert!"

"It was the Silk Road. I knew someone would come along eventually. And someone did! Was it the man who sold you to me?"

"No. A slave caravan. When they found me, they just added me to the ranks. But I broke out, and freed all those people!" There's a triumphant light in his eyes at the recounting. 

"Ever the hero," the Master drawls. "But you were captured again."

"Yes," the Doctor says, with rather less pride. "I tried to get away, but.."

"I see," the Master says, eyeing the whipmarks. "Was that your punishment?"

"Most of it. How long were you gone?"

"Two years."

The Doctor gapes. " _Two years?!_ "

The Master gives him a look. "Be glad I came back at all. I could have left you here to rot."

"What did you do with my TARDIS for _two years_?"

"A little of this, a little of that. I got bored, winning all the time. That's when I thought of you." The Master smiles.

"I'm so flattered," the Doctor says, bitterly. But his ego must be assuaged enough, because he stops complaining.

"Now, drink. We've wasted enough time." The Master guides the flask to the Doctor's mouth, and tilts it slowly. The Doctor doesn't look happy about it, but as the water touches his lips, he opens to accept it. The Master makes him drink almost all of it, then finishes off the last himself. He puts away the empty flask, then wipes the trickle of water from the Doctor's chin 

With his hands bound it would be too easy for the Doctor to fall, either intentionally or accidentally. The Master solves the problem by having the Doctor behind him on his horse, and by wrapping a long cloth around the Doctor's back, under his arms, and tying it around the Master's front. It's enough to keep him secured for the ride.

The city trails off behind them, and they ride out onto the plain.

The Doctor is quiet for the duration, even nodding off briefly against the Master's back despite the roughness of the ride. The Master musters a bit of sympathy for him; the Doctor has no doubt had a miserable time on his own, half-starved, beaten, and exhausted. The Master will have to make up for that, and he has a few ideas on the subject. Oh, yes.

Finally, they reach the camp. Their horses slow to a trot, and more servants come out to greet them. The Doctor looks around, and the Master can almost hear the little gears in his head grinding away trying to figure it all out.

"Is all this yours?" the Doctor asks, curious.

"I assumed it would take a while to find you. I thought I'd do it in style."

"Emir!" a man says, striding out to greet them. He's taller than the others, young but with the trappings of status. "You have found him?"

"Yes, Farid," the Master says. "You can call off the search."

"And to think," Farid says, looking at the Doctor. "All this for one lost slave."

The Master smiles benevolently. "Have him washed and dressed. Privately. Have the tongueless slaves do it. Leave the tent before he's naked."

Farid bows his head, and gestures to two servants. One accepts the leash from the Master's hand, and the other encourages the Doctor along with a push The Doctor looks back, alarmed, but the Master just gives him a little wave. The Doctor will be brought to his tent when they're done. In the meantime, he has business to attend to. 

Being in charge can be such hard work. It's fortunate that now he has his own personal slave to relieve his stress.

§

The Doctor is having a very bad day.

He enters a tent, hustled in by the two burly servants and Farid, only to find another two men there preparing what looks like the tenth century Persian version of a bath. He can't believe this is happening. He's still not sure he isn't hallucinating all of this; the Master's sudden appearance and bizarre, humiliating rescue.

He should never have let the Master make him tea. It's his own fault for letting his guard down, for actually letting himself relax, for believing the Master could ever be good without an ulterior motive. The Master helps him save one planet from destruction, and just look what happens. He's trapped in Persia for a month, and the Master takes his TARDIS on a two-year joyride! Who knows what havoc he's wreaked?

More immediately worrying is that the Master seems to be quite comfortably in power. The Doctor doubts the TARDIS is here, because this is obviously a temporary base. Which means he's going to be stuck as the Master's personal slave until he can find out where it is and get his hands on the key again.

Which leads to the other immediately worrying matter.

"Any chance you could untie me?" the Doctor asks the two men, once Farid and the servants have gone. He half-turns and thrusts out his bound arms. "Two buckles? One? I promise not to escape, really I--"

He's interrupted as one of the men takes hold of his arms, but instead of freeing him, uses them to guide the Doctor into a shallow tub, and onto his knees. The other man takes hold of his leash and secures it to the handle of the tub with a bit of rope.

"Ah, yes. Very secure," the Doctor says, aware he's rambling and unable to stop. "See, if you free my hands, I can wash myself. Save everyone the bother. Really, you can just, um..." He looks down as the bald servant -- the Doctor decides to think of him as Baldy -- reaches down and removes the Doctor's loincloth. 

Leaving him naked. Or rather, not naked enough. The Doctor's face burns with embarrassment.

Baldy and, er, let's call him Hairy, are surprisingly unfazed. Baldy unties the pouch and pulls it off, revealing the contraption. The chastity belt. The Master put him in a _chastity belt_. The Doctor tells himself to stay calm, and later, when he's free and back in his ship, he can make the Master pay for this in some as-yet-undecided-but-very-humiliating fashion. 

Much to the Doctor's relief, Hairy starts to unbuckle the straps that bind the Doctor's arms. "Yes, that's it," the Doctor says, grateful. "Just take them off and, and I'll wash myself and that will be fine."

The leather sheaths are removed, but as Hairy sets them aside, Baldy pins the Doctor's wrists together and binds them with another bit of rope. 

"That's not fair," the Doctor pouts, frustrated. He tries to stand, but Baldy pushes him back down, then pulls on the leash until the Doctor is forced to lie back in the tub. Baldy removes the chastity belt and collar, much to the Doctor's relief. Hairy returns with two buckets of hot water, and pours them into the tub along with two more of cold, and then another two of each. The water shallowly covers him, and it's pleasantly warm, and after a month of living rough, he decides to relax and enjoy the bath.

It's strange being washed by complete strangers, but oddly pleasant. He cooperates, allowing them to pose and adjust him to reach various areas, as they scrub every inch of skin with soap and perfumed water. He only protests when they reach more personal areas, and is fairly mortified as they wash his arse and genitals. 

When it's done, they help him from the tub and dry him thoroughly. He expects them to put back on his new accessories, but instead he's made to kneel on the rug as they empty the tub and dry it. When that's done, they guide him to climb back inside, and kneel again. His wrists are freed, but then bound again in front of him. Baffled, the Doctor goes along with it all as they push him down onto all fours, and then onto his elbows, with his arse in the air. 

He realises what they're about to do when a greased finger pushes into his arse. His eyes widen in alarm, and he tries to leap out of the tub, but Baldy and Hairy pin him down quick. "Please, don't do this," the Doctor begs them, but they can't speak, and seem uninterested in his pleading. Hairy holds him down by his neck as Baldy's finger pushes back inside. It slicks him clinically, and then is replaced by cold metal.

Warm water trickles into him. With his cheek pressed against the tub, the Doctor can just see the leather flask out of the corner of his eye. Baldy steadily squeezes it, filling the Doctor's insides. They're washing him inside as well as out; it's commendably thorough of them, really. It's actually not the first time the Doctor's had an enema, not even the first time it was involuntary, but that just means he knows what to expect.

They use a lot of water, and when the cramps start, he's quietly cursing ever having saved the Master's life. He should have let Francine shoot him, instead of talking the gun off her and pocketing it. But no, he had to make saving the Master his personal mission. And where did that get him? Arse up in a Persian bathtub with a bellyful of cramps! He whimpers pathetically, and doesn't care about how it looks.

It's forever until Baldy and Hairy relent. They help him up, and place a pot in the tub for him to sit on. The Doctor shudders as the water pours out of him in bursts, leaving him sweating and shivering. The pot is taken away, and he thinks it's over, but he's forced into position again and another leather flask is poured into him. The water is cold this time, and smells faintly of roses. As he waits, it feels like his insides are freezing, and his body temperature drops, leaving him weak and unresisting. He doesn't bother to struggle for the third round, though at least it's rather small, and the warmth of it soothes. He thinks there might be a bit of alcohol in it, because it makes him feel woozy. 

Instead of giving him a pot to empty himself, a wide plug of some kind is pushed into his arse, holding the small amount of liquid inside. It stretches him uncomfortably, and he clenches against it, his body trying to push it out. But when his struggles are noticed, one of the slaves pushes firmly on the plug, making him whine pathetically and go still.

He's wiped down and dried, and taken out of the tub to kneel on a rough blanket. Again his wrists are freed, then bound behind his back with rope. He's made to lie on his back, his knees spread, and his ankles are crossed and bound together. They're going to do something else to him, and he doesn't think it will be another scrubbing. The wooziness doesn't stop his stomach from twisting in worried anticipation, but in a way he's grateful that it takes the edges off the world. 

Baldy brings over a metal tray, bearing decanters of oil, two razors, a small mirror, and washcloths. He sets the tray down and kneels beside the Doctor, hands Hairy one of the razors and takes one for himself. 

"You don't have to do this," the Doctor protests, trying to push himself up "I don't need a shave. Really. I should be growing a beard like you two have. Tenth century, no beard, terribly out of fashion."

Hairy puts the blade to his neck, and the Doctor goes very still. "Yes," the Doctor says, barely moving his jaw. "Or I could lie down."

Hairy gives a pointed nod, and the Doctor lowers himself back down again. The blade stays at his throat, and then to his distant horror he feels the faint press of the other razor to the base of his cock. He doesn't so much as twitch as the blades are held there for a long, terrifying minute, and then are removed.

 _Message received,_ he thinks.

Warm oil is drizzled generously onto his front, his thighs. Massaged into his skin, into the coarse hair at his groin. It would be relaxing if it wasn't such utter molestation. He tries to shut his eyes, to block it out, but he can't. He stares up at the ceiling of the tent, watches the way it ripples subtly in the breeze. The glow of the sun is dimming, the yellow light of the oil lamps taking prominence.

The two slaves shave him at once, one at his chest and one at his thighs. They scrape away with the same rhythmic motion, stopping only to wipe away bits of hair, to sharpen the blades, to apply more oil where it is needed. Each gradually moves towards the other end, clearing away half his body hair, avoiding his groin. When they finish, he's coated again, and a second shaving is done, clearing away any stubble remaining. 

When he was kept by the slavers, about once a week he was given an old razor to shave with. He was ordered to shave his armpits and groin, for cleanliness, and his face, to shame him. The blade was blunt, just another punishment in not-so-subtle disguise. He told himself he didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing that happened to his body mattered, because he knew he would escape and get back to his TARDIS and everything would be fine. But he didn't, and he hasn't, and it isn't.

They start to shave his groin, and he swallows a sob.

Whatever their faults, Hairy and Baldy are nothing like the slavers. They keep their blades sharp and his skin oiled, and they hold his genitals with clinical care as they shave them bare. He looks down to see them crouched over him, focused at their task. It wouldn't do to damage the Master's precious, recovered slave. They've already lost their tongues; they probably don't want to risk losing anything else. 

When they've finished there, Baldy comes up to shave his face, carefully clearing away the days' worth of stubble. As he works, the Doctor feels a cool liquid being rubbed into his shaven skin, starting at his legs and moving up. He's coated thoroughly, and by the time Hairy reaches his neck, Baldy has finished with his face, and he's coated there, too. His skin tingles and pricks, and when he shifts in discomfort, Baldy holds the razor in front of his face, reminding him to keep still. 

Minutes pass, and the prickling changes to a flushing heat. The Doctor grits his teeth, muscles tensed against the sensation. His eyes are watering by the time his skin is finally wiped clean, and coated with something cool and soothing. He slumps in relief, only to be unbound and turned onto his front. 

They do it all again, oiling him, shaving his back and his arms and legs, this time leaving nothing untouched, his feet and the backs of his hands, the crease of his arse and the creases of his legs. He doesn't resist as they position him this way and that. They remove the plug to shave where it covered, and two thick fingers push inside him, spreading and oiling him. And nowhere is spared the prickling, flushing heat of the liquid applied after his shave. 

After the soothing liquid, he's taken back to the tub and wiped down, washed of hair and oils. He feels worn and tired, and doesn't even blush as they clean his genitals. With the change in position, a few drops of liquid seep from his arse; by now almost all of the last enema has been absorbed by his body. Rose oil is rubbed into his skin, from head to toe. He touches himself absently, and his skin is perfectly smooth, hairless and soft. The only hair that's left is on his head. 

Finally, he's helped to a pile of pillows to lie down. They slide his oiled cock back into the bronze sheath, dressing him again in the chastity belt, in the arm bindings and collar and leash. He's daubed with perfumes and powders, his hair dried and brushed, his lips painted and eyes kohled. He's dressed in a new loincloth, brightly-coloured and soft, but as short as his old one. 

By the time they've finished with him, it's nighttime, and he just wants to sleep. They bring him to the Master's tent, and sit him on the large, soft bed. The end of his leash is secured, but he wasn't going to run away anyway. When they've gone, he curls up on the warm suede and falls into a doze.

When he wakes an hour or so later, the tent is filled with yellow light from the oil lamps, and the summer night air comes in sweet drafts. He smells food, and realises he's hungry. He turns his head to see the Master sitting behind him on the bed, cross-legged, snacking from a tray of food on his lap. He's changed out of the turban and formal black and gold robe he was wearing in the bazaar, and into more casual wear: loose, billowy _shalwar_ trousers, and an open black shirt.

The Doctor licks his lips, and tastes powdery makeup. He sniffs, stretches his legs, and blinks hazily at the Master. "Satisfied?" he says, voice rough from sleep.

"Not even remotely," the Master replies, and smiles at him. "Snack?"

The Doctor's mouth waters. "Please," he says, without shame. His stomach growls loudly.

The Master sets aside the tray, and helps the Doctor sit up. It's awkward with his hands bound behind him, but a few properly aligned pillows do the job. The Master takes a bit of bread, dips it in olive oil, and slides it into the Doctor's mouth. 

The Doctor moans as the Master's fingers slip free, and barely chews the bread before swallowing it. _Food_. Proper food, not the disgusting gruel he was fed by the traders, or the little he could scavenge when he'd escaped. He's given a piece of spiced lamb next, and it's the most delicious spiced lamb in the whole of space and time. 

The Master watches him with fond amusement, feeding him one bit of food after another, alternating between the different items on the tray, his fingertips slipping into the Doctor's mouth again and again. Then he sets the tray aside, though there's still food on it, and wipes his fingers clean. 

The Doctor smiles lazily at him, feeling full and grateful, and a bit sleepy again. But it's then that he realises his body has other urgent matters that need attending.

"Master," he says, feeling a bit awkward about this. "You might want to let me out of all this now."

"Oh? And why might I want that?"

"Because I have to pee." The Doctor shifts on the bed, feeling the pressure in his bladder increase. "Unless you want a new bed..."

The Master gives him a tolerant look. "All right," he says, and climbs off the bed. He frees the end of the leash, but only that, and tugs on it until the Doctor shuffles to the edge of the bed and stands.

"Master, my arms..." the Doctor protests.

The Master shakes his head, and leads the Doctor to a pot in the corner. "One of the few things I hate about this century. They haven't got the hang of plumbing." 

"Are you expecting me to straddle it and hope for the best?" the Doctor asks, archly.

"Of course not," the Master says. He unties the pouch and pulls it off, and grips the bronze sheath and aims the Doctor's cock at the pot. "Go ahead."

The Doctor just looks at him. "Are you serious?"

"Perfectly. Or you could hold it in until you explode."

The Doctor glares at him, and feels his face heat again. "I can't do it like this!" he protests, uncomfortable.

"You don't have a choice," the Master replies. "Take your time. I can wait."

 _Bastard,_ the Doctor thinks. _Utter, utter bastard._ He grits his teeth and tries to force his muscles to relax. "Why are you doing this?"

"You have to ask?" the Master says, bemused. "Then I'll tell you. I'm doing this because I want you to know exactly how it feels to be controlled. Constantly watched. Your every move observed, every dignity stripped away." His voice darkens with old anger, with revenge. "To have your freedom stolen on a _whim_. You see, Doctor, I came back for you to teach you a lesson. It's your turn to be the obedient slave. But because I am a generous Master, I'm going to make sure you enjoy your slavery far more than I did." And suddenly, the anger vanishes, replaced by utter authority. "Now _piss_ , before I find out if the Persians have invented the catheter yet."

Too shocked to be embarrassed, the Doctor obeys. 

"Better," the Master says, his voice warm with approval. His hand reaches behind the bronze sheath to massage the Doctor's balls. "Now, I believe I mentioned _begging_..."

§


	2. Chapter 2

As his hand moves between the Doctor's thighs, the Master leans in to kiss the freckles on the Doctor's shoulder. Now that he's no longer filthy, it's clear how time in the sun has darkened them, even brought a faint tan to the Doctor's pale skin. Another kiss at the edge of the collar, sweet around his neck. He licks skin and leather, and chuckles low in the Doctor's ear. 

"Tell me how grateful you are," he murmurs.

"What?" the Doctor says, faintly.

"All the things I've done for you. Saved you from the nasty slavers. Washed and fed you. Gave you such lovely gifts." The Master thumbs along the base of the Doctor's cock, before it's covered by the bronze. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

He can feel the Doctor tense as he struggles to reply. His suffering is so delicious. And deserved.

"Thank you," the Doctor manages, weakly.

The Master releases the Doctor's balls and steps back. "Not very impressive But it's a start." He tugs on the leash. "Turn around."

The Doctor turns, and the Master takes a moment to relish his prize. His Doctor, caught and bound and readied for him. Such a beautiful revenge.

"Two years," he says, looking the Doctor up and down, memorising every detail. The leather against his hairless skin, the head of his cock just showing past shining bronze. The shuttered defiance in his eyes, and the black lines of kohl around them. "Did you think I forgot you?"

The Doctor looks down, answering without a word.

The Master gives him a pitying look, and reaches up to touch his cheek. "I thought of you every day," he murmurs. "I used your ship to conquer so many worlds, and every night I pictured you here, alone and in pain. Waiting for me to save you." His hand slides down slowly, caressing the Doctor's collared neck, his chest. "Anticipation makes life so much more interesting, don't you agree?"

The Doctor swallows, and meets his eyes again. Oh, so much anticipation there, so much fear. It's intoxicating, and the Master breathes deeply, as if to taste it. 

"I'm going to hurt you," the Master promises, voice gentle and cruel. "Not all the time. When you deserve it. I hope you don't think one month was enough to satisfy me."

He waits for a reply, and the Doctor gives a tiny shake of his head. 

"I could have left you here. Remember that, because I can always change my mind."

He gives the Doctor long enough to absorb this, and then leans in and kisses him. He's not surprised when the Doctor resists at first, lips tight together as he flinches back. But that's as far as it goes, and the Master persists until the Doctor's lips part, until he reluctantly kisses back. The Master hums into the Doctor's mouth, pleased, and deepens the kiss, intensifying it until the Doctor whimpers and welcomes him.

When the Master pulls back, the Doctor's eyes are dark, his painted lips smeared and full. He looks dazed by his own sudden lust. The Master smiles at him.

"All those times," the Master murmurs, bare inches away. "When you came to me. I couldn't decide if it was pity or your own selfish need. The poor, lonely Doctor offering his body to me, or raping me. That's what it is when one person can't say no. What is it humans call it? Oh yes. _Consent_."

A tense pause, and then the Doctor says, quietly: "I wouldn't have... if you'd _said_..."

"I was your prisoner. Do you really think I had a choice?"

The Doctor stares back. "Yes," he says, certain.

The Master fights a smile. "Good. Then I'm giving you the same choice."

The Doctor's brow furrows adorably. "You are?"

The Master nods. He watches as the Doctor tries to figure out exactly what's going on. His current body is awfully delicious when he's confused. "But I don't intend to wait all night for an answer," he warns. "Yes or no?"

"But..." the Doctor begins, floundering. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "All right. If I agree, what am I agreeing _to_?"

"That's very simple. You'll be giving your consent. Now, yes, or no?"

"Um... Well..." The Doctor looks around the room, as if casting for an answer. He looks at the Master, and bites his lip. He tries to lift his arms, reflexively trying to tug at his hair, no doubt, but they're held fast. He sighs. "Yes? I suppose?"

"You suppose?" the Master says, raising his eyebrows.

" _Yes_ ," the Doctor repeats, certain. 

The Master smiles broadly, showing the Doctor that he gave the right answer "Turn around."

The Doctor looks questioning, but obediently turns. The Master starts to undo the straps that bind his arms, then pauses. "Remember. Just because there isn't a lock, that doesn't mean you have permission. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Master."

The Master unbuckles all the straps, and pulls off the leather sheaths. He folds them and sets them aside. The Doctor winces at the stiffness in his arms, stretches them out and then rubs them.

"Sit down," the Master says, and walks with him to the bed. They sit together, and the Master takes one of his arms and starts massaging it with the heel of his hand. The Doctor winces, then slumps in relief as the ache is worked from his muscles. 

"Thank you," he says, quietly. He closes his eyes, suddenly trusting again. It's sweet, really. Tell him what he wants to hear, and he'll let the Master take and take. His poor, lonely Doctor.

The Master finishes the massage, and strokes idly down the Doctor's arm. "Better?"

The Doctor opens his eyes and smiles crookedly at him. "Mm-hm." 

The Master leans in for another kiss, and this time the Doctor eagerly responds. "Master," he murmurs, between kisses. And then suddenly he slumps forward, head buried against the Master's shoulder, holding on to him as if he's afraid one of them will slip away. He breathes out in a shudder, and then straightens up.

"Sorry," he mutters, embarrassed. He shakes his head. "It's been a long day"

"Lie down," the Master tells him. He takes the tray from the bed and sets it on the floor, then crawls onto the bed to join the Doctor. He crouches over him, straddling his body and kissing him, the Doctor reaching up for him, shifting beneath him. 

"I've missed fucking you," the Master murmurs, and he can actually see the Doctor's pupils widen with arousal. The Doctor writhes restlessly.

"What about the, ah, the chastity belt?" 

"What about it?" the Master replies, and kisses him again.

The Doctor breaks the kiss. "You're not leaving it on," he says, half-asking.

The Master looks at him evenly. " _You're_ not taking it off," he says. "If you do, I'll have them cut your hands off."

The Doctor glares at him. The Master so enjoys that stubborn glare. "Turn over," he says, nicely.

The Doctor adds a pout to his glare, but is wise enough not to disobey. He turns onto his front, and pouts against the bed. The Master crawls down his body, and stops to admire the faded whipmarks on his back. He touches the lines gently, tracing each one from end to end, counting them out. Some are older than others, layered beneath the clearer lines.

"How many times?" the Master asks, curious.

The Doctor shrugs. 

The Master kisses one of the worst of the lines. "How many?" he asks again.

"Once, twice a week," the Doctor admits, remembered pain in his voice.

"No wonder they were so eager to be rid of you. Always talking back, planning escapes. Naughty Doctor."

"I had to try."

"Of course you did," the Master says, with complete understanding.

"I didn't care about the pain."

The Master tuts. "Now that's a lie," he says, mildly chastising. "You don't have to protect yourself with lies anymore. You're safe here."

The Doctor laughs, bitterly. "Safe. That's the last thing you are."

The Master smiles. "Can't fool you. But it's not a lie, Doctor. You're safe from all of them." He kisses the lines, one by one. They trail off towards the small of the Doctor's back, and the Master rises up onto his knees, straddling the Doctor's thighs. _Two years._ Part of him wishes he'd come back later, given the Doctor another month or two of suffering. But by then he might have escaped properly, found a sympathiser. No, a month will have to be enough. 

Besides, that slave trader was right. He prefers to do the breaking himself 

He slaps the Doctor's thigh. "Up," he commands. "On your hands and knees."

The Doctor moves, and when he's settled again, the Master caresses his raised arse. "Did anyone fuck you?" he asks, voice firm enough that it's clear he wants an answer.

"No," the Doctor says. "It was just... the beatings."

The Master nods, satisfied. He tugs off the loincloth and drops it on the bed, then grasps the Doctor's cheeks and squeezes and rubs, spreading them over and over. The Doctor smells clean, of rose oil and soap and perfume but with an undertone of his natural honey-salt. His arsehole glistens with oil, and the Master rubs his thumb against it until it reflexively opens, shuts. He pushes the tip of his thumb inside and rubs at the rim. Not slick enough for fucking, but sufficient for now.

He spreads the Doctor's cheeks again, pushing them wide, and slips both thumbs in together. He tugs at the rim, making it gape one way and then another, rubbing with one thumb and pulling with the other. The Doctor bites back moans, and his nails dig into the suede of the bed. The Master nips at one cheek, and then slips his tongue alongside his thumbs, lapping eagerly.

By the time he's openly fucking the Doctor with his tongue, the Doctor is whimpering loudly, out of both arousal and discomfort. The Master stops and reaches down between the Doctor's legs, and finds the base of the Doctor's cock swollen against the bronze sheath. The device denies him his erection, forcing the swollen flesh down, frustrating him wonderfully. The Master rolls the Doctor's balls in his hand, arousing him further, driving on the ache.

"Do you want me to take it off?" he asks, smirking.

" _Please_ ," the Doctor begs, voice tight. 

The Master just chuckles, and continues to tease him. With his other hand, he rubs at the swollen base, making the Doctor buck against his hand in fruitless need.

"While I was away, I visited this planet," the Master says, thoughtfully. "Ruled by their women. Their queen was rather striking, and intelligent enough to bargain with. I briefly visited her harem." And by visited, the Master means 'became an involuntarily member for a few days before escaping'; not that he'll admit that to the Doctor. "It was a very... interesting visit. _Educational_."

His hands slide around to the Doctor's arse, and he presses two fingers inside, idly stretching and pressing. When he finds the Doctor's prostate, he begins to massage it, and relishes the Doctor's uninhibited moans.

"For example," he continues, "if one of their harem had ambitions, or started fights, they had a very effective form of punishment. Would you like to know what it is?"

After a long enough silence that the Doctor realises he's expected to respond, he nods.

"Say it out loud," the Master tells him.

"I want to know," the Doctor manages, voice breathy with arousal.

"Good," the Master says. "Use your words, Doctor. How else will I know if you really mean it? I'm sure you don't want any misunderstandings between us" He stops the massage, pulls out his fingers. "In fact, so I'm sure you'll remember, a demonstration is called for."

The Doctor tenses, breath catching in evident fear. He's probably expecting another beating, poor thing. But the punishment of the Roncière queen was far more sophisticated. 

Yet the Doctor's response is enticing. It seems a month abandoned here has done more damage than a whole year of suffering on the Valiant. Perhaps because there was no great crime to thwart, no hope of a paradox to reverse. At times, the Doctor can be like a diamond, made harder by intense pressure, and at other times... at other times he _bends_ , and anything that bends can be shaped, if the material is understood. And the Master understands the Doctor so _well_.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small metal case, unobtrusive to the era. He opens it, and takes out the item inside: an oblong disc made of a soft, silicone-like material, about an inch long. It was created to be a simple toy, a diversion for the Queen to use on her harem, but more inventive uses were found.

When he pushes his fingers back into the Doctor's arse, the disc is pinched between them. He pushes the disc against the Doctor's prostate, rubbing it into place.

 _Stay_ , he commands it, and it sticks, gaining molecular traction, holding to the Doctor's body. It responds to simple telepathic orders, and will only recognise those orders when they come from him. 

_Begin_ , he orders, and pulls his hand free. In seconds, the disc begins its work, massaging the way the Master's fingers did. The Doctor bites back a groan.

"Feels good?" the Master asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Yes," the Doctor says, roughly. "What...?"

But the Master isn't interested in answering his questions. Instead he returns to his enjoyment of the Doctor's arse, spreading his cheeks and lapping at the rim of his arsehole. He pushes his tongue inside, probing and curling, hooking the rim with his thumb and tugging it open. He feasts on the Doctor's body in a patient tease, stopping to toy with his balls, his trapped cock; sometimes pushing several fingers inside him. The disc device ripples rhythmically against the Doctor's prostate in a tireless massage, and in time his cock begins to drip.

" _Gnnh, Master_ ," the Doctor moans, slurred with arousal. 

"Keep still," the Master warns, as he catches the drops in his palm. "I don't want you dripping on the bed." He takes the tray from the floor and slides it under the Doctor, and positions an empty bowl to catch the come that's being forced out of him by the disc. He crawls to the Doctor's side and holds his palm to the Doctor's mouth. "Lick it clean," he orders.

The Doctor's face is a picture of humiliated ecstasy, brow furrowed and cheeks flushed. His tongue peeks from his open mouth, wetting his lips. His eyes are heavily glazed when he opens them to see the Master's hand held out for him. Indecision crosses his features, but another ripple of pleasure washes it away.

He laps at the Master's hand until it is clean, until the Master takes it away. The Master dips his fingers in the shallow puddle of come in the bowl, and brings them to the Doctor's mouth, and is pleased when the Doctor needs no instruction to lick and suck them clean. As come fills the bowl, the Master feeds it back to the Doctor bit by bit, sometimes in his palm, sometimes smearing it on the Doctor's mouth for him to lick over and over. 

There is enough room between the Doctor and the end of the bed for the Master to kneel there. He takes a palmful of come, and positions himself. He takes out his cock and smears it with the Doctor's come, and offers it to him The Doctor sucks and laps greedily, sliding the rough of his tongue around the shaft of the Master's cock, against the head of it, seeking every trace. The Master pets him approvingly, mussing and smoothing his hair, which grew long during his enslavement. The Master slips his hand down to admire the collar around his neck, congratulating himself on the selection: the leather intricately engraved, with hints of glittering blue, probably cobalt or crushed jewels. A beautiful adornment for his slave. The Doctor should be realising that's what he is, now. Perhaps not yet accepting it, but recognising his position. Not even a prisoner, but _property_ , valuable but still something to be bought and _kept_. It's a lesson he dearly needs to learn.

The Doctor whines feebly around the Master's cock. He sounds distressed enough for the Master to pull his cock free.

"Tell me what you feel," he orders.

The Doctor looks up at him pitifully. "I have to... I need to come. _Please_."

"Does it hurt?" the Master asks, kindly.

"It aches so much. _Master_ ," the Doctor pleads.

The Master tucks himself back in and crawls over to his side, and sees that the drips of come have stopped flowing. There's a small puddle left in the bowl, and the Master picks it up and holds it for the Doctor to lick clean The Doctor hesitates.

The Master says, warningly, "I don't like to give the same order twice."

The Doctor gives a swallowed whimper, and begins to lap at the bowl.

"This is your punishment, Doctor," the Master explains. "Arousal without relief. Come without climax. That little device inside you will make sure of that. And don't even think about taking it out yourself."

The Doctor's face crumples, like he's about to cry, but he has the sense not to stop licking. When the bowl is clean, the Master drops it back on the tray and moves the tray to the floor by the tent flap. Someone will come and take it in morning. When he returns, the Doctor's expression has smoothed out again, but it's too closed off for the Master's liking.

"Look at me," he orders. When the Doctor doesn’t immediately respond, the Master pushes him by his shoulder, forcing him onto his side. The Doctor glares up at him, anger sparking in his eyes.

Defiant. The Master likes that. He also likes the way defiance crumbles. 

"I believe you want to say something to me. Be honest. You're utterly obvious when you lie."

"This is insane," the Doctor hisses, then squeezes his eyes shut as the disc gives him terrible pleasure. "I'm sorry I kept you in the TARDIS," he says, a bitter apology. "I'm sorry I tried to _save_ you!"

"I don't want you to be sorry," the Master says, unmoved. "I'm not interested in apologies."

"Then what?" the Doctor asks, voice wavering. "Just revenge?"

"A _little_ revenge," the Master says, sitting beside him on the bed. "It's so very sweet, you see. But if I learned anything from our little adventure with the Valiant, it's that the sweetness doesn't last. Revenge gets very dull after a while. Why did you think I let you win? There were so many ways I could have stopped you." He gently strokes the Doctor's arm. "And setting traps, letting you chase me around the cosmos? No, I thought we'd try something new."

"I wouldn't call keeping me imprisoned _new_."

"Oh, but it is," the Master says, resting his hand on the Doctor's hip. "This time, there won't be any 'you'll never get away with this' or 'I won't let you hurt them.' No grand schemes for you to ruin, or advanced technology to exploit. You were right about one thing, when you unilaterally decided our future. It _is_ time for you to settle down, at least for a while. New tricks, Doctor. I believe you can still learn them."

"Why here?" the Doctor asks, quieter now, as the Master's hand slides back to fondle his arse. "Why now?"

"Why this place, when I could take you anywhere in the TARDIS?" The Master looks thoughtful. "Because this place agrees with me. Because there's no sign of temporal interference. Because post-Industrial Revolution Earth is so _done_."

The Doctor looks at him, almost hopeful. "You're really not trying anything?"

"Oh, I've taken over a comfortably-sized emirate," the Master says, sliding one finger into the Doctor's arse and fucking him with it. "But my only real project is you. I'm giving you all of my personal attention."

"I suppose I should be... complimented..." The Doctor's focus falters as he succumbs to the pleasure again. He moves one leg aside, allowing the Master better access to his arse. Without some external crisis to drive him, he becomes much more cooperative. The Master learned that during his captivity on the TARDIS. He learned a great deal, in fact. The Doctor revealed so much more to him through his fruitless attempts at reforming the Master, than the Master learned through all his generous torments.

"I want you to be happy," the Master says, as he pushes two more fingers in alongside the first. "I want you to enjoy yourself."

"You expect," the Doctor starts, breathing ragged. "Me to... believe that?"

The Master gives a disappointed sigh. "Oh, _Doctor_. So little trust, when all I'm doing is agreeing with you. You're the one who wanted a life together. The last of the Time Lords, side by side. You're the one who wanted to make this work. Don't tell me you've changed your mind."

The Doctor looks confused and lost. Longing flashes across his face. He all but sacrificed himself in the name of exactly what the Master is offering him, and it's clear that their time apart made him need it more than ever. And his need is deliciously strong, far stronger than the human morality he pretends to have. Those humans were only too quick to turn their backs on the Doctor, when the Doctor refused to let them punish the Master for his crimes. It was a fact that the Master took no end of delight in rubbing in, during his captivity. Once again, humans forced the Doctor to choose between his own kind and the human race, and the Doctor finally made the right choice. 

He doesn't need to sabotage humanity. They're no longer the competition.

The Master pulls his fingers free, and crawls over the Doctor, pushing him onto his back as he goes. He caresses up the Doctor's body, and leans close to brush against his lips, barely holding back from a kiss. "Tell me you don't want this," he murmurs. "Look me in the eye and tell me, and I'll let you go. I'll take back everything I've given you and let you walk away, and you will never, ever see me again." He tilts his head the other way. "This is your one chance to _win_. Win and spend the rest of your life alone. All you have to do is _say_ it."

He kisses the Doctor softly, and then raises up to look him in the eye. He watches patiently as the Doctor struggles: against the arousal he can't control, against his own need and longing, against the cheap morality he so often threw in the Master's face. He opens his mouth to say the words, to deny the Master and himself, but they never come. 

The words will never come. And they both know it.

"I know," the Master says, in gentle understanding. "The truth can be so difficult to accept."

The Doctor swallows, eyes suddenly wet. He shakes his head, but it's a pitiful resistance. Kindness conquers him so easily.

"I need you to tell me," the Master continues. "I need you to say the words 'I want this. I accept this.' I need you to tell me, because if you don't, I'll have to stop. And neither of us wants that."

The Doctor takes a sobbing breath, and a tear streaks through his kohl, smearing it. The Master carefully wipes at the smear, neatening the black line "I..." the Doctor begins, and stops as his breath catches. His eyes flick back and forth.

"Look at me. That's it," the Master encourages, as the Doctor meets his eyes again. "Tell me you want this. Tell me, or I'll let you go. Tell me, and I'll keep you."

"I want..." the Doctor begins, and lets out a shuddering breath. "I want this."

Warm satisfaction curls in the Master's belly. "Good. Continue."

"I accept this. _Master_ ," The Doctor makes a desperate sound, and looks to the Master like the Master will save him. "I don't want to leave."

The Master looks down at him with a genuine, happy smile. "Then I won't let you," he promises, and it's as simple as that. This time when he kisses the Doctor, there's no hesitation in his response, no struggle, just open desire. The Doctor clings to him, presses up against him, emotional need overcoming his physical frustrations. The Master indulges him, taking everything he has to give, and it's the most glorious feast. An eager, willing Doctor is a special delight, and it makes the Master greedy. Not so greedy, however, that he loses the plot.

When the ache of frustration overwhelms him again, the Doctor whimpers pleadingly. "I need to come."

"You will," the Master promises. "But not yet."

The Doctor gives his best pout. "Why not?" he asks, childishly.

"I did mention _revenge_ ," the Master reminds him. "You didn't think I was going to just forget all that? You agreed to this on my terms. And my terms are that you suffer while I enjoy fucking you senseless."

"What if I say no?" the Doctor says.

"It's too late for that," the Master replies, his tone sharpening. "We both get what we want, Doctor. But that's the price. Of course, you could struggle, but that would just make it more exciting." He gives a devilish grin, and then rolls off the Doctor and lays back on the bed, head on his hands. "In fact, since you're feeling well enough to complain, it's time you did some of the work around here. There's oil on the tray. Get it."

The Doctor stares back at him, obviously trying to decide whether to mouth off and risk being in more trouble, or to cooperate with his own enslavement. A month of foul treatment seems to have taught him some kind of lesson, because he actually makes the right choice and goes to get the oil.

"Get yourself ready for me," the Master orders, and tugs off his clothes as he waits. 

Obvious displeasure on his face, the Doctor kneels on the ground and pours the oil into his hand. He leans forward, raising his buttocks, and pours the oil into his arse. It spills messily down his balls as he pushes his fingers into himself, working the oil deeper. 

_Faster_. The Master sends the telepathic command to the disc, and the Doctor stills and shudders as the massage strengthens. A few fresh drops of come drip from his soft cock as he finishes slicking himself.

"Just look at that mess," the Master says, looking disapprovingly at the spatters of oil and come on the leather floor. "Clean it up." 

The Doctor bites his lip as another ripple of pleasure is forced through him, and then looks around for something to wipe with. 

"Use your mouth," the Master reminds him.

The Doctor glares at him, but the Master simply looks back. The Doctor looks down at the floor, the picture of humiliation, and crouches down to lick at the spots of come before they dry. He crawls slowly backwards as he laps up the oil, and the disc forces out more fresh come, leaving a trail of it beneath the Doctor as he crawls. He pauses as he finishes the oil and sees the trail, and then bows to lap it up. When it's apparent that his body is dripping as fast as he can lick, he cups the end of his cock with his hand to catch his come as he finishes the floor. He stays there, shuddering and ashamed, dripping into his cupped palm, until the disc once again stills. 

"Come here," the Master says, softly. "Bring it to me."

The Doctor awkwardly stands, careful not to spill even a drop from his hand There's far more come in it than a human could produce after already giving so much, but Gallifreyan powers of recuperation have many benefits. 

When the Doctor presents his hand to the Master, the Master dips his finger in it and smears it on the Doctor's lips. But before the Doctor can dutifully lick them clean, the Master kisses him, lapping up the come himself, sucking on the Doctor's lower lip. Then he leans back again, and brings the Doctor's hand to his cock, and smears it on himself.

"Clean your hand first," the Master orders. "Then my cock. But hurry, don't let it drip."

The Doctor hurriedly laps at his hand, sucking on his oiled fingers as drips of come begin to slide down the Master's balls. But before they can touch the bed, the Doctor lowers his head between the Master's parted thighs and sucks greedily on his balls, wet and sloppy. It's indescribably good, and the Master lets his head fall back in delight. The Doctor slows to an easier pace as he sucks and laps at the Master's cock, swollen red lips wrapped against the shaft, tongue sliding eagerly.

As he sucks at the head, the Master urges him down to take more into his mouth. The Doctor's tension fades as he suckles steadily, as the Master cards through his hair and strokes his face. For a moment, he seems peaceful, and the Master thinks how beautiful this body of his is, with his long lashes shuttered and freckles on his cheeks. This body begs to be kept, to be tamed.

"That's enough," the Master murmurs, grips the Doctor's hair and pulls the Doctor from his cock. "Get the oil."

The Doctor blinks, dazed, and then his eyes snap back into focus. Obediently, he retrieves the decanter of oil, but before he can use it, the Master takes it from him and sets it aside. The Doctor looks at him questioningly.

"Come here," the Master orders. He pats the bed, and the Doctor sits down beside him. The Master kisses him, and after a confused pause, the Doctor kisses back. He tastes of his own come.

The Master breaks the kiss, and reaches down for the chastity belt. The Doctor's eyes widen as the Master takes it off him, easing his half-swollen cock out of the bronze sheath, undoing the leather straps and belt. The Master strokes him sweetly, drawing him to fullness, and the Doctor cries out softly in relief.

"There," the Master says. "That's better, isn't it?"

"Thank you," the Doctor says, so grateful. 

The Master smiles warmly. "Hands and knees. Go on," he says, and releases him.

Confused but happy, the Doctor crawls onto the bed. 

_Stop_ , the Master orders, and the Doctor starts in surprise as the disc stills. The Master slips two fingers into the Doctor's arse and touches the disc, telling it _Release_. He removes it easily, taking it out of the Doctor, and sets it aside for later, along with the chastity belt. 

At the Doctor's expression, the Master chuckles. "You didn't think I was going to fuck you with all of that in the way?" he says, smiling as he caresses the Doctor's arse. 

"Maybe," the Doctor admits.

The Master kisses him back, and then retrieves the decanter of oil. He hands it to the Doctor, then settles back on the bed, positioning himself against the pillows. The Doctor pours oil into his hand and anoints the Master's cock with it, careful not to let any drip. Without being told, he licks his fingers clean. 

The Master gestures for the Doctor to straddle him. 

As the head of his cock presses into the Doctor's arse, the Master admires the sight before him: the long plane of the Doctor's stomach, taut as he leans back; the leather leash dangling across it, and brushing against his full, flushed erection. The Doctor's eyes are closed in concentration as he does all the work, reaching back to hold the Master's cock in position as he lowers himself around it. 

The Master strokes the Doctor's thighs, feeling the tension in them with the slow fall. The Doctor is wonderfully tight, and clenches exquisitely around the Master's cock. After two years of waiting, it's all the Master can do not to thrust up inside him, to drive himself deeper, but somehow he holds back. It's important that the Doctor learn to serve him properly. 

Finally, with a sharp exhalation, the Doctor sits, his arse flush against the Master's groin. The Master holds him there with a hand on his hip, and with his other hand caresses the Doctor's cock. The Doctor bites back a groan of such beautiful need. The Master thinks of how lovely the Doctor would look like this, but with his arms bound as they were before, how his thighs would strain as he dragged himself up and down on the Master's cock. 

"Put your hands behind your back," the Master orders, voice thick with lust 

The Doctor hesitates only briefly before obeying. The submissive streak in the Doctor has always been there, but it's particularly wide this time around. The Master has stripped away his false resistance, and revealed the raw surrender beneath. The thought of what he will do with it is intoxicating, and his nails dig into the Doctor's hip as he thrusts up, unable to resist any longer. 

" _Fuck yourself_ ," the Master growls.

The Doctor's eyes open, and meet the Master's, and the moment of connection is like a spark. Suddenly the Doctor is resolute in his submission, thriving in it, embracing it. His shoulders are proud as he keeps his arms pinned firmly back, and he holds the Master's gaze as he drags himself up and thrusts down again. The Master thrills to the knowledge that he's broken through the Doctor's denial, his fear, and any doubts he has about their new arrangement vanish. He holds the Doctor's hips, guiding him and egging him on, bracing him as he thrusts up inside him, driving deep. 

Oh, his Doctor, his beautiful Doctor, _his_.

Their fucking becomes a blur of the senses. The sound of flesh against flesh, the slap of the Doctor's cock as it bounces up and down, smacking against his belly; the scent of oil and come and honey-salt musk. The hard bone and soft, bare skin of the Doctor's hips beneath the Master's hands, and the flex of muscle at his waist. The Doctor bares his teeth, breathing hard, flushed with exertion, eyes dark and sharp and awake. The Master wants to consume him, to take all of him completely, to claim every inch of him, inside and out, mind and body. 

The Doctor cries out as the Master grabs his cock, giving rough strokes that drive shocks of pleasure through him, making his rhythm stagger. The Master uses his grip to force the Doctor to even out again, to hold his rhythm in service despite his own pleasure. He must need to come so badly now, so awfully much. The Master could leave him unsatisfied, could be cruel, but his Doctor has given him so much. It's only right to be generous.

He slides his hands beneath the Doctor's arms, around his slim body, and presses his fingers along the Doctor's spine. He musters enough focus to tickle at the Doctor's mind, to urge him to open. _You are mine. Open for me. Open, open._ He thinks the commands over and over, until he feels the Doctor's resistance weaken, the path into his mind clear. The Master thrusts himself into the Doctor's mind as he thrusts up inside him, and both of them cry out, two minds and one voice.

Their unison breaks, the Doctor focused on fucking himself on the Master's cock, the Master focused on striking tendrils of himself through the Doctor's mind. He feels the tendrils take root, anchoring and spreading like vines seeking the sun. The Doctor's eyes lose focus as their movements synchronise again, their bodies as one, the Master feeding the Doctor the glorious sensations of fucking him, of his achingly hard erection and heavy, swollen balls. The Doctor cries out in his mind, his own intense arousal blurring with the Master's. 

For this long moment, the Master takes utter control, the Doctor's body his puppet and his mind his echo. The Doctor's self is trapped in the tangle of vines, aware and helpless and dizzy with arousal. The Master feels his own arousal peaking at the sensation of the Doctor clenching hungrily around him, at the knowledge of the Doctor in his power, at the Doctor's willing, blissful submission. He comes hard, snarling and clawing at the Doctor's body, pulling him down and thrusting up, and every sensation is driven through the Doctor's mind into his body. The Doctor comes a fraction of a second behind him, his cock pulsing, streaking come onto the Master's belly.

The Master holds the Doctor's mind this way, pulsing sensation after sensation into him, as their bodies shudder and soften. The Master releases his physical control over the Doctor, allowing him to slump forward but not fall As his aftershocks fade, he withdraws the tendrils that share his senses, and in the wake of the afterglow the Doctor groans weakly. The Master touches him soothingly, stroking his sides, rubbing his back. 

" _Master_ ," the Doctor mewls.

The Master hushes him, and wipes the last drops of come from his softening cock. The Doctor gives little hiccoughs of noise, something between a sob and a moan, that taper off as the Master helps him to calm. 

When the Doctor has regained his senses, the Master pulls the rest of the way out of his mind, then pats him on the arse. "Up," he orders. 

The Doctor bites his lip as he drags himself off the Master's cock, and as he slips free, the Master guides the Doctor's hand to cup his leaking arsehole. The Master's come drips generously out of him. The Master guides him to turn around, still straddling the Master's body, and bow his head. The Doctor laps up the streaks of his own come from the Master's belly, and then bends to suck the Master's come from his cock. 

As the Doctor crouches over him, the Master wipes up the dribbles of come from the Doctor's arse and balls, and sucks his fingers clean. Hungrily, he cranes his neck to lap at the Doctor's arse, feasting greedily on him as he sucks him clean. The Doctor's arse is tender and open, hot against the Master's fingers and tongue. The Doctor clenches around him, whimpering around the Master's softening cock. The Master hums in appreciation, and the Doctor gives a muffled moan. 

Finally, when they're both clean and the Master is satisfied, he pushes the Doctor off him. The Doctor collapses onto his side, limp and tired. The Master considers leaving him this way, but for all his good behaviour tonight, the Doctor still needs to be kept in check. Without discipline, he'll too easily slip back to his old arrogance, as the Master glimpsed earlier. No, he has to let the Doctor suffer tonight to teach him his place.

The Master stretches widely, feeling pleasantly sore and quite content. He stands from the bed and walks around the bed, watching the Doctor with narrowed eyes. The Doctor looks up at him, and turns onto his back, and the Master takes up his leash. He sits down beside the Doctor and drags the looped end along his front.

"Tell me how you feel," the Master orders, gently.

The Doctor swallows, looks away, down, then back. "I don't know," he says, mild hysteria beneath his exhaustion. He closes his eyes. "I don't know."

"That's honest," the Master says, approvingly. "Honesty is always the right answer. I can't decide what's best for you, if I don't know the truth."

The Doctor laughs once, looks up at the Master. He looks so lost, so vulnerable. It's perfect, really. "I don’t know what the truth is," he admits.

The Master sets down the leash, smoothing it down the Doctor's front. He touches the collar at the Doctor's neck, stroking it admiringly. "The truth is," the Master tells him, "that you want this. You need this. That's why it scares you." 

As the Master watches, hope lights through the storm in the Doctor's eyes. He takes a sobbing breath, and takes the Master's hand and holds it to his face, closes his eyes and sighs. It's not the prelude to any sharing of minds, but a simple gesture of comfort, of trust. The Master finds himself feeling touched, feeling tender towards the Doctor in a way that surprises him With his free hand, he gently strokes the Doctor's hair, his collar, his forehead. 

"You need this," the Master murmurs. "We both do. Just let it happen. Shh."

When the Doctor opens his eyes again, his eyes have cleared. "Okay," he says, softly.

The Master leans down, and kisses him sweetly. "Stay," he says, and goes to retrieve the disc and the chastity belt. The Doctor frowns when he sees what the Master is doing, but before he can protest the Master gives him a stern look. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

"I don't like them," the Doctor pouts.

The Master gives a look. "That's the point," he says. He gives the Doctor's arse a smack. "Up," he orders.

The Doctor obeys, and the Master replaces the disc inside him. _Begin_ , he orders, and the disc resumes its steady massage. The Doctor bites back a whimper, shudders with what looks like a delayed aftershock. _Night mode_ , the Master commands it, and the massage eases to a low setting.

The chastity belt goes back on next, the Doctor's softened cock slipping neatly back into the bronze sheath. The Master secures the straps and belt, and the travel pouch over his genitals, tying it in a neat knot. That will keep the Doctor from leaking onto the bed. 

"Lie down now," the Master says, gently. He kisses the Doctor's forehead, and caresses his cheek, showing him that this punishment isn't out of anger. He hopes the Doctor understands, but even if he doesn't, he will in time. 

Satisfied with the arrangement, the Master prepares them for bed. He extinguishes the oil lamps one by one. It's a new moon tonight, but the starlight casts a pale glow through the fabric of the tent. He settles back into the bed, and drags a light blanket over them both. 

At first the Doctor keeps apart from him, preserving some space he thinks he needs. But in the dark, the bed shifts as the Doctor silently curls up against him. The Master holds him as they drift to sleep. 

§


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor dreams that he is lost.

He is dressed in slave's clothes, his wrists bound in rope, but there is no one to drag him along. He feels as though he has been walking forever, for weeks on end, but he does not stop to rest. He wanders through a market, full of dust and noise and colour, as the world blurs and shifts around him. He is in Tyre, in Mathura, in Gaochang, and he is alone, he is seeking. 

A peacock feather drifts down from the sky, swirling to the ground and he falls to his knees, dizzied by hypnotic, vivid blue. The sun shines on the white eye of the feather and the bright light blinds him. He falls, but is caught in a wave of yellow silk. It wraps around him, carrying him, rippled by the wind. When the fabric falls from his eyes, the silk has draped around him like a cloak. He finds himself on lush grass, the dirt and wear gone from his skin, which is now soft from oils and scented with rose and jasmine. 

A man appears before him, and the Doctor bows his head, knowing he has been found.

"Stand for me," the man says. He is dressed in finery, the bright sun glinting in the gold thread of his embroidery.

The Doctor obeys, rising to his feet, but with his eyes downcast. The man beckons, and the Doctor follows him through the grass. Bees buzz past, and the air is sweet with honey. He is brought beneath a tree, where the man has spread a blanket over a bed of leather. 

"My desire is all a longing," says the man, "till I see thee stand before me." 

"Go not, beloved and cruel," the Doctor replies. "I have not strength to say farewell to thee."

The man smiles, and pushes the yellow silk from the Doctor's shoulders, baring his skin. The Doctor looks at the Master, and sees he is as he was before, saturnine-featured with streaks of white in his black beard. 

"Look thou," the Doctor says, ashamed. "My body is a useless thing, so worn it is, so wasted with desire. I am grown lean with love."

The Master steps closer, gently holding his arms. "Then I invent a medicine from the moisture of my lips, and from the roses that my cheeks have lent, to cure thy melancholy." He kisses the Doctor sweetly, and takes him down to the blanket, and covers him with his body.

The Doctor welcomes him, and finds that he is home. As he is filled, he looks up at the sun, and sees the moon.

He returns to himself, and finds he had fallen asleep in the garden. His copy of _The Great Diwan_ has fallen to the ground, and his robe has parted, revealing his erection. He does not cover himself, but sprawls back in the grass, letting the ache of his need brush away the haze of sleep. Small white flowers are scattered around him, fallen from above, and as he stands he brushes away those that cling to him.

His fingers graze the leather that wraps around his neck, and he smiles softly.

He walks to the centre of the garden, where a tiled fountain bubbles. The night air is thick with the perfume of flowers, jasmine and rose. He dips his hand into the glittering water, and wets his face, the coolness clearing the wisps of dream from his thoughts. 

_A face as beautiful as the full moon, and lips red like the bimba fruit._

He remembers the Master as he was in his dream, and touches his aching cock. He is full of need, so much need, and there is only one who can sate it. He leaves the garden with his cock high and his robe open, and walks barefoot through halls of plush carpet and flickering oil lamps. Servants pass him, and he blushes at his exposure, but does not cover himself. They look at him, but will never touch, unless they are ordered to.

The Doctor has known many hands on his body, when they have been ordered to.

The Master has finished his rulings and orders for the day, and the Doctor finds him in the reading room. He is lounging on the pillows, sipping wine as he reads from a slim book of poetry. A plate of cut fruit rests on a tray beside him.

The Master sees him, a smile lights his saturnine features. "You have flowers in your hair," he says, setting aside his book. 

The Doctor kneels before him, and the Master plucks the white blossoms from his hair. He brushes the petals along the Doctor's lips, down his chest and stomach, and then along his straining cock.

"'Soul receives from soul that knowledge, therefore not by book nor from tongue,'" the Master recites. "'If knowledge of mysteries come after emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.'"

"Rumi," the Doctor recognises.

"My court poet is well read," the Master acknowledges. 

"'Rub thine eyes, and behold the image of the heart,'" the Doctor says, reciting from later in the same poem. "'Make yourself free from self at one stroke. Like a sword be without trace of soft iron; like a steel mirror, scour off all rust with contrition.'"

"I will scour you," the Master promises, with dark amusement. The flowers fall from his fingers, and he grips the Doctor's cock, drags at it in firm strokes.

The Doctor's breath catches, but he concentrates on his words. "'I swallowed some of my Beloved's sweet wine, and now I am ill. My body aches, my fever is high.'"

"Then drink more," the Master says, and releases him. Takes the cup of wine and brings it to the Doctor's lips, and tips it to make him drink.

The wine is sweet, and warms the Doctor's belly. The cup is taken from his lips, and halves of red cherries fed to him, one by one. He sucks the juice from the Master's fingers, and the Master wipes the corners of his mouth dry.

"'Love came,'" the Doctor recites, "'and became like blood in my body. It rushed through my veins and encircled my hearts. Everywhere I looked, I saw one thing.'" He holds up his hands. "'My Beloved's name written on my limbs, on my left palm. On my forehead, on the back of my neck.'" He touches each place in turn. "'On my right big toe,'" he says, and wiggles his foot and smiles. "Oh, my friend, all that you see of me is just a shell, and the rest belongs to my Beloved.'" And with the last line, his smile fades into a gaze of devotion. " _Master_ ," he breathes, reverent. 

The Master pushes the robe from the Doctor's shoulders, baring his skin. He kisses the Doctor sweetly, and takes him down to the pillows, and covers him with his body. The Doctor welcomes him, and finds that he is home. 

And as he is filled, the Master's cock deep inside him, the Doctor recites, "'By day I praised you and never knew it. By night I stayed with you and never knew it.'" The Master steals his breath with a kiss, and the Doctor moans in his ecstasy. "'I always thought,'" he begins, breathless with love, with worship; the Master's name on his collar, on his soul. "'I always thought that I was me -- but no, I was _you_ and never... and never knew it.'" He arches up, climax welling inside him, and cries out, " _Master!_ "

With the Master's name on his lips, the Doctor wakes.

This time he is truly awake, though at first the bed is so unfamiliar he thinks himself still dreaming. His body is saturated with arousal, and the Master is beside him, in the body he wears now. But it's an alien toy that drives his body, and his cock is trapped and untouched. But it's not these punishments, this thwarted arousal, that leave him wide-eyed in the darkness. 

It's the dream. It's how much he wanted it, and how much he _still_ wants it. Madness, all madness. He has to get out of here. He has to leave before it's too late.

The Master is deeply asleep. The Doctor very, very carefully lifts his arm and slips from the bed. He bites back a whimper as he bumps against the leather pouch that covers his genitals, jolting them. He needs to find relief, get these things off him and out of him, but he can do that later. 

He passes a mirror, hanging from the side of the tent, and catches his reflection. He looks like a well-fucked concubine.

_Behold yourself and see the shameless truth, which the mirror reflects._

More Rumi. That's the last thing he needs. 

He manages to find his loincloth and cover himself with it. As he leaves the tent, he sees that the sky is starting to lighten. It will be dawn soon, and the others will be waking up, servants starting their chores. But if he can get one of the horses, he can put some distance between himself and the Master before anyone has a chance to spot him. 

He listens in the silence, and hears horse sounds coming from across the camp. With silent steps, he creeps past the tents. 

As he nears the horses, the punishing toy inside him suddenly intensifies its massage, and he staggers and falls to the ground. He gapes, holding back a cry, as painful jolts of pleasure strike through him. He tries to stand but falls again, and claws at his trapped cock. If he can only come, he can find some relief! But not out here. Someone will see him. He has to get to the horses.

He crawls forward on his hands and knees, his progress halting as his body struggles against its torment. Though it seems impossible, the further he goes the worse it gets, until he can barely even crawl. He struggles to focus his eyes, and sees the open flap of a tent, a storage tent. He casts towards it like a drowning man. 

Inside, it's dark, and there are many bags and blankets. He crawls into a corner and drags a blanket over himself to hide. He pushes off the loincloth, fumbles at the chastity belt, somehow managing to undo the buckles and straps. He feels a wave of relief as he pulls off the bronze sheath and grips his cock. It reaches full hardness in mere seconds, but hope turns to tearful frustration as he finds no release. His cock continues to leak out come, but any climax is denied him. He bites into the blanket and groans and whimpers.

Abandoning his cock, he pushes two fingers into his arse, straining for the toy. He can just about feel the disc with his fingertips, but it's somehow stuck inside him, and he fears that if he tries to pull it out, he'll hurt himself too badly to ride. He curls into a ball, gripping loosely at his cock, insensate in a haze of pleasure-pain.

Light peeks through the edges of the blanket, and he hears voices. The camp is waking up. It's too late. As he waits, the voices suddenly turn urgent, and he knows they're looking for him. He keeps quiet and still, though his eyes tear and he wants to beg for the Master to make it stop.

The voices reach the tent, and the blanket is torn away. He looks up to see a group of men staring at him, talking excitedly and pointing, and one of them kneels down to inspect him. The Doctor recognises him as the man the Master called Farid.

"He seems to be sick, but there is no sign of damage," Farid says to the others. "Go tell the Emir we have found him. Go!"

One man runs out to carry the message. Farid and two other men drag the Doctor from the corner and into the centre of the tent. They pry his hand from his dripping cock and tie his wrists behind his back. The Doctor whimpers softly, humiliated, writhing in helpless need as they stare at him, some curious, some lustful, some disgusted. He has no control over himself, and no escape.

The men look towards the entrance of the tent, and move away from him.

The Master has found him.

He looks down at the Doctor with a chilling stare, and prods at his erection with his shoe. There's an anger in him that the Doctor hasn't seen since the Valiant, and he instinctively cringes away from it. 

"Leaving so soon?" the Master sneers. He plants his foot on the Doctor's chest and presses down, pinning him to the ground. The Doctor's hands are pressed painfully against his back.

A servant brings over the discarded chastity belt and come-soaked pouch, the latter of which he holds distastefully from his fingers. The Master takes the bronze sheath and holds it out for the Doctor to see.

"You _really_ shouldn't have taken this off," he says, darkly. "Running away was bad enough. But for _this_..." He shakes his head, and hands the sheath back to the servant. "Put it back on him," he orders.

"But Emir, in his state," the servant begins, looking at the Doctor's erection.

"Oh, that won't be a problem," the Master says.

A moment later, the tempo of the disc inside him abruptly shifts, and the Doctor gasps and bucks as his painful arousal spikes hard. His eyes roll back as his cock twitches and pulses in agonised, forced climax. Barely a dribble of come leaks out, his balls wrung dry by the toy. He lies limp and twitching on the floor, breathing in whimpering gasps. The disc inside him goes still, and his cock begins to soften.

The Master takes his foot from the Doctor's chest, and waves for the servants to act. "When you're done, bind and gag him and sling him over a horse. The rest of you, pack up. We leave immediately."

As the Master leaves, the Doctor is surrounded by servants. Two of them haul him to his feet, and two more replace the chastity belt. His cock is roughly squeezed, forced back into the sheath before it's fully soft, and the straps are buckled tight. His genitals are stuffed into the pouch, and he's gagged with thick cloth. His ankles are bound together, and his arms bound to his body, and he's dragged out of the tent.

Outside, the camp is a bustle of activity. Tents are being dismantled and bags carried to the horses and camels. The Doctor is handled slightly better than a sack of potatoes as he's dragged to a horse and slung over it. More rope secures him to the saddle, ensuring he can't slip free.

From arse-up in a Persian bath, to arse-up over a Persian horse. The Doctor's luck shows no sign of improving.

After a while, the Master steps in front of him. 

"We're going back to my palace," the Master says, with cold disinterest, refusing to give even a hint of kindness. "The trip takes several days by horse. We'll return to town for supplies, and you'll receive your punishment.”

He casts an eye over the ropes that bind the Doctor, and seems satisfied by them. He walks away, out of the Doctor's sight, to the other side of the horse. And in full sight of the camp, the Master pushes two fingers into the Doctor's arse. The Doctor burns with embarrassment.

The Master takes his fingers out again, and walks back around. He has the disc in his hand. 

"That was the _fun_ punishment, Doctor," he warns. "For the next one, it will be your blood on the ground, not your come." And with that, he takes the disc between his fingers and snaps it in half, and throws it into the dirt.

§

The morning sun is high when they reach town, and the market is humming with activity. The Master taps at his horse with his riding cane to slow it, and falls back alongside a riding servant.

"Ride ahead," he orders. "Tell them to gather in the streets to see their new Emir. There will be a sentencing in the town square. Have it prepared."

The servant acknowledges, and spurs his horse to a gallop, quickly passing those ahead, including the captive Doctor. The Master has enjoyed the hours of the Doctor's humiliation, naked and strapped over a horse like so much luggage. The Master has been thinking about the fading scars on his back, and making his own mark into the Doctor's flesh. 

The Master did not enjoy waking up this morning to find the Doctor gone. He did not enjoy the familiar bitterness of betrayal and abandonment, the humiliation of having lost a slave he spent so much effort in recovering. 

This was the last time. The Doctor will not run from him again. That particular habit will be broken, even if it kills the Doctor in the process. If this edition of the Doctor proves too intractable, there are still three regenerations left in him, and the Master has no particular qualms about using them. 

But, he tells himself, cooling his anger, it would be a shame to put so much work into disciplining the Doctor, only to sacrifice centuries of the time with him he could enjoy. And this particular edition is already so close to submission. A Doctor who has already given up his human pets, who has already sacrificed unbounded freedom for the sake of his Master, needs only to be taught with a firm hand. 

The Master won't let his own impatience get the better of him. He waited two years for this moment. His plans will not be halted at the first sign of difficulty.

The town _Shahrdâr_ is there to greet them as they approach the square. "Emir," he says, "you honour us with your presence. Your servant has informed us of your needs, and all of our resources are bent to fill them."

"Good," the Master says, and notices the Shahrdâr glancing at the Doctor. "That pathetic creature is one of my slaves. He attempted to escape, and needs his purpose impressed upon him. You and your people will bear witness."

"Of course, Emir."

"Have him taken down and watered," the Master orders, "and then carried to the square. Do not be gentle. And present him to the crowd. I want his face to be known."

The Shahrdâr bows, and begins shouting orders to a group of men. They unbind the Doctor from the saddle and take him down, and are satisfyingly rough about it. They remove the gag and pour water at his mouth, and the Doctor probably manages to drink some of it. He looks worn from the long ride, confused at his treatment, and afraid of what's to come. As he should be.

Two men grab the Doctor by the ropes and his bound arms, and haul him up, facing behind them. Another two each take one of his legs, and together they carry him through the street, allowing the crowd to see and touch him. Curious hands brush his body and face, and even grab mischievously at his arse and the pouch that covers his genitals. It's only a shame that as the crowd swallows him, the Master can no longer see his face. 

The Master takes his riding cane, and heads into the square.

As they finish their circuit, the men carry the Doctor into the clearing. The people stand back in a wide ring, eager to see what will be done. Earth history is full of the human taste for public punishment, and this place is no exception. A tall post has been erected at the very centre, with chains nailed to it, hanging down from the top. The ropes are taken from the Doctor's body, and his wrists are manacled to the chains. He hangs taut with his front against the post, his back exposed. 

The Master has a brief word with the men, then dismisses them. Alone with the Doctor at last, in front of an audience. He walks around to see the Doctor's face, his cheek pressed against the wood. His expression is a combination of overwhelmed panic and stoicism, shifting back and forth between the two. Such expressiveness to him, such openness, always obvious despite his most valiant attempts to hide his feelings. In hindsight, it was a waste to have that expressiveness obscured by the Lazarus aging. Little wonder it proved so unsatisfying.

There will be no more hiding, no more secrets. The Doctor will make his confessions, or the Master will break him open.

"Doctor," the Master says, drawing his attention. He fondles the cane, showing it off to the Doctor. "Do you understand why I have to do this?"

The Doctor stays silent. His mouth is pressed in a thin line, his face pale with anticipation, his eyes red with exhaustion. 

"You will _speak_ ," the Master warns, "when spoken to. I expect you to answer. Honest answers will earn you mercy. Lies and refusals will not."

The Doctor's nostrils flare, and defiance sparks in his eyes. But he says nothing.

"You will speak," the Master repeats, and steps away. He turns to the crowd, acknowledging his citizens. "My people!" he calls to them. 

The murmur of the crowd quiets, and hundreds of faces turn to him in obedience. So much better than giving speeches for television. 

“My people,” he repeats, this time as a claim upon them. Through the surrenders of their leaders, they have given themselves to him as surely as the Doctor has. He gives them now a proper welcome.

"Order. Respect. Submission. These are the foundations of a noble society. These are the things that make us holy." As he speaks, he walks around the edge of the circle, addressing the crowd, letting them see him for the first time. Letting them bask in his presence. "All things have their place, responsibilities that must be respected, fulfilled. We are all servants to the heavens."

He gestures to the Doctor, hanging pitifully in wait. "But there are some who do not seek holiness. Who reject their responsibilities, who flee from their homes. Who think themselves _superior_ to the heavens." He holds out his cane. "Those who transgress must be punished. They must feel the sting of their own betrayal, for surely such transgression is a betrayal of all, of society and of the heavens themselves."

The crowd is eating it up, eagerly taking in every word. Fire and brimstone, sins by any other name. 

"Those who transgress," the Master continues, coldly, "break with order. Those who deny respect, who refuse submission, deserve neither. A slave who will not accept his slavery is lower than any beast. Even the horse and camel are holier than such a slave." He gestures to the Doctor again. "And today I bring such a slave before you. I bring him so that you may look upon him and know his face, that he may be an example to you. I bring him so that you may see him punished, and the heavenly order restored."

Approving cries ring out in the square, and the Master allows the crowd to cheer and cry before raising a hand to quiet them.

"It is said that no more than thirty-nine lashes should be given," he continues. "I will give this slave five lashes, and order him to speak. If he says nothing, he will receive another five, and I will ask again, and he will receive another five. And if thirty-nine lashes are reached, and he still has not spoken, then with the fortieth he makes himself a sacrifice."

With that threat hanging in the air, he turns to face the Doctor again, and taps his cane against the palm of his hand. 

"You will confess to me exactly why you ran," the Master tells him, quiet so no one else can hear. "And you will swear on your hearts that you will never run again."

He doesn't wait to see if the Doctor will muster a reply. He walks to the Doctor's back, and raises his arm, and strikes. 

_One._

The Doctor arches in pain, and chokes back a cry. Each successive blow is the same, and the Master stops when five red lines swell dark against the Doctor's skin.

"Speak," the Master orders, but the Doctor says nothing.

The audience is silent in rapt attention as the next five lashings are delivered. And then another five. With the fifteenth strike, the Doctor sobs aloud, voice thick with agony. But still he does not speak.

The Master reaches the twentieth strike, and his patience is wearing thin. The Doctor's back is thick with swollen lines, some of them bleeding where the skin has broken. He lowers the cane and walks around the pole to face the Doctor again. 

"Halfway, Doctor. Time is running out. Tell me why you ran."

The Doctor's eyes are wet, his dirty face streaked with tears. But he merely shakes his head.

The Master gives him a cold look, and delivers the next five and the next five, his arm aching with the force of his blows. The Doctor cries out with each blow now, unable to hide his pain. When the Master stops, breathing fast, he decides to up the stakes. The Doctor needs a harder lesson than a cane can provide.

"Farid!" he shouts, furious. "Bring your whip!"

Farid appears from the edge of the crowd, carrying a long, corded whip. "Here, Emir," he says, looking askance at the Doctor's mess of a back. As he hands over the whip, he hesitates.

"Is there a problem?" the Master asks, coldly.

"This is a stock whip, Emir," Farid says, worried but hushed. "For the cattle. Even ten strokes could--"

"Then he'd best speak after nine," the Master says, and takes the whip. He dismisses Farid and smoothes the long heavy braid against his palm. Such a whip, delivered full-forced, could leave any human maimed or dead. But the Doctor is no mere human.

"Speak, Doctor," the Master spits. "Why did you run?"

The Doctor takes gasping breaths, and at last he struggles to speak. "I..." he begins, weakly. "I was..." He looks at the Master in despair, then looks away. 

" _Tell me_."

The Doctor shakes his head, and sobs. He seems willing, but whatever his admission is, it's more painful than his punishment has been. The Master decides to make the choice easier for him.

On the second strike of the whip, the Doctor _screams_. A bloody X marks his back as his legs go out from under him, and he hangs limp from the chains. The Master goes to him again.

"I'm waiting," he prompts.

"I was afraid," the Doctor slurs, at last. "I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?" When there's no immediate response, he sighs impatiently. " _Doctor..._ "

The Doctor's feet paw at the ground as he tries to push himself up. But his legs tremble, and he slumps again.

"Afraid of what?" the Master prompts, but the Doctor is silent again. "Very well," he says, and readies the whip again. 

Two more brutal strikes. The red lines curve around the Doctor's side where the whip snapped around. 

"Afraid of what?" the Master asks again.

The Doctor shakes his head, and gives a whisper of a laugh, wrenched and frail. "New tricks. I thought..."

The Doctor lapses into silence again. The Master waits, and then motivates him with two more strikes. The Doctor's scream is a rasping wail.

"Thirty-six," the Master reminds him. "You thought?"

"I'd want... to stay..." the Doctor slurs, the pain beginning to overcome him. "I'd let you... take... scour me... contrition..."

The Master shakes his head. "You always were afraid of your own needs, Doctor," he says, bitterly. "Very well. I accept your confession. But I expect a promise now. You will never run from me again, no matter what you feel. You will learn respect and submission. _Say it_."

The Doctor is silent again, and the Master bares his teeth in anger. He whips the Doctor again, again, again, stopping only because he has reached thirty-nine, because any more and the Doctor will not be capable of giving his promise.

"Last chance," he warns, and raises his hand.

The Doctor shudders with pain, back bleeding generously. He struggles for air, for words. "Mah... gnnh... promise. I promise. I..."

"Promise accepted," the Master spits, but his anger is not sated. He raises his arm one more time, and gives the final lash. The Doctor slumps and goes still, unconscious at last. 

The Master turns to the crowd, raising his arms, the bloodied whip held high. "His transgression has been punished," he says, voice booming out to them. "This slave has accepted his place in the order of the world. He has given himself to submission. For that, he will be rewarded."

He waves to the man he'd spoken to before, and a brazier of hot coals is brought over. An iron pole rests inside it. Another man carries a bucket of water, and places it at the Master's feet. A washcloth floats inside, and the Master takes it and squeezes it over the Doctor's face, rinsing off the spatters of blood. Another squeeze, and the Doctor stirs, consciousness creeping back.

The Master washes him with care, wiping the blood from his shoulders and back. The water in the bucket tinges red. Fresh blood continues to trickle from his wounds, but the worst of the gore is cleaned away. 

The Doctor is awake by the time the Master finishes, shivering with pain, breathing in shallow, staggered gasps. He turns his face towards the Master, and struggles weakly against the chains, as if asking to be freed. When the Master makes no move towards him, his brow furrows in confusion, and he gives a bleary groan.

"Shh," the Master says, warmly. He touches the Doctor's skin just above the shoulderblade, free of blemishing marks, and kisses there, once. "It's all right. You're coming home with me."

"Done?" the Doctor echoes, tremulous hope beneath his exhaustion and pain.

"All done," the Master assures him.

The Master takes the iron pole from the brazier, and at the end of it is a glowing red cattle brand, shaped in an Arabic _miim_. 

The brand sizzles as it's pressed into the Doctor's shoulder, and it's several seconds before the Doctor can scream. The Master holds the brand against his shoulder as the air fills with the smell of burnt flesh, with the Doctor's wail of utter agony. 

"Oh, except for that," the Master says, smiling at his little joke. He pulls the brand away, revealing a deep burn, the _miim_ long and curved, like a striking cobra. Beautiful.

The Doctor faints, and the Master is, for now, satisfied.

§


	4. Chapter 4

"Doctor. _Doctor_."

_gimme the news, I got a bad case of loving you_

The Doctor gives a faint giggle as the song floats through his head. He liked Moon Martin's version better. Moony Moon Martin. Moonshine. Moon River. 

_dream maker, heart breaker_

"Are you sure that is his name? He is no physician."

"That is what the Emir calls him. Perhaps that is what he was. I do not think he was born a slave."

"Is he... _humming_?"

"He is delirious." A sigh. "Take him down and put him on a fresh horse. I will tell the Emir."

The Doctor wants the moon. Wants to dive into its reflection, to drown in cool water. He only has the sun, and he's hot, so hot. There are embers in his back.

The world dips and spins as someone drags him down, the leather saddle sliding out from beneath him. Hands are carrying him, making the ground sway. He sees feet. Nice feet. He wiggles his own as a show of foot solidarity. Bipeds have to stick together.

Oh, and now he's on the ground again. No, not the ground. He smells sweat and lamb's wool. Everything swims, turning in dizzying spirals. He tries to hold on to the scratchy blankets, the rough fur of the floor, but he can't get his arms to move, or his legs. Oh, he'd forgot about the rope. Tie him up, tie him down. At least he doesn't have to walk. They kept making him walk when he wanted to run. 

Something is pressed to his mouth, forced past his teeth, and he chokes on water. Well water, from a qanat. It's not cold but it's sweet, and he drinks what he is given.

"The wounds have become infected."

"Then treat him. I will be very unhappy if he dies."

"Yes, Emir."

Something is pressed against his back, and the pain whites out the world.

§

He is walking. He is walking, and the sun burns at his back. He is bleeding, but they will not let him rest. The last time they whipped him, they rubbed salt in his wounds. Humans are so inventive in their cruelties.

He wants to run. He ran once, but was caught. If he falls, they will beat him again, and so he walks.

_"You are a troublesome slave. Who would want to buy you?"_

_"Then let me go," he said, begging with defiance._

_But the man laughed. "What kind of fool do you take me for? No slave is ever freed because he is trouble."_

_"Then how are they freed?"_

_"By death," the man said. "But there is no profit in a dead slave. Whoever buys you will be a cruel master. I will make sure of that."_

He remembers the crack of the whip, and flinches.

"Hold him still. _Hold him still_."

"I am trying! For one so sick, he has the strength to struggle."

"He is not even awake. Sit on him if you must."

A heavy weight crushes him, pressing the air from his chest. He gasps weakly. Something wet is poured across his back, giving pain worse than the salt He arches in agony, eyes opening wide as he screams, and he sees mountain rock, sees the Master on his horse, silently watching.

Pain drags at him, and consciousness slides away.

When he is aware again, the constant jostling of the horse has stopped, and the hot sun no longer screams upon his skin. He tries to move, and stills as the earth spins and spins. His stomach is empty and his throat sore, his mouth bitter with old bile. He gags, trying to vomit, but there is nothing left in him.

A damp cloth wipes his face.

"Doctor? Can you hear me? Open your eyes."

His eyes seem glued shut, rough and dry beneath the lids. The cloth wipes at them gently, then rests cool on his forehead. He opens his eyes, and the world is dimly lit and blurred. He sees, but nothing makes sense. Shapes with no meaning, colours with no name. There is only one word he knows: _Master_.

He tries to speak it, but his tongue is clumsy and thick.

"I need you to drink this," the Master tells him, and brings a cup to his lips.

The liquid is viscous and bitter, and makes him shudder and pull away. But the Master holds his head and brings the cup to his lips again, and makes him drink, a little at a time. 

"This will wash it down," the Master says, reaching for another cup. 

Warm, sweet tea is trickled into his mouth, washing away the bitterness and bile. Medicine, he thinks. A spoon full of sugar. Super-calli-something-something-wibbly-wobbly-Daleks. If you know the sound of it... 

The Master. Not the Master. Not-not the Master. Always full of tricks, tricking him, making the world cool and slippery and sliding down, down. Into a soft bed, a soft haze, drugs cottoning his mind.

The Master sitting in shadow at the edge of the bed, beside him, gently stroking his hair. The Doctor struggling to focus, to see him, but no longer able to tell if his eyes are open or closed. The Master in black velvet, with strong, refined features, and a neat brown beard. Watching over him. Keeping him safe.

He reaches for the Master and clings to him, the velvet soft and fine under his heated cheek. The Master strokes sweetly on his naked skin, a cool caress pushing away the blankets, the pain and fever, the throbbing and the aches. Velvet sliding against him, the Master full against his front, holding him as they lie together. 

"Master," he sighs, through dry lips. "Master."

The Master hushes him, and smiles, arrogant and fond. "Oh, my dear Doctor. Your surrender is such a delight to me. Can you feel it? My name burned into your very soul?"

"Master, I burn," the Doctor says, answering the call like a prayer.

The Master's reply is a kiss against his lips, a cool balm against the endless heat that suffuses him. The Doctor thirsts for him, starves for him, but it is he who is feasted upon. The Master covering and claiming him, cocooning him, holding him safe.

He is lost in blackness.

When he is aware again, he is aware of movement. He sees himself on a desert world, an ancient place of scrubby plants and dry grass. He is on a horse, holding on to the Master, pressed close against the velvet of his clothes 

He wants to sleep, but the sun beats down, relentless, boiling away the cool balm within him. The Master races their horse to a gallop, faster and faster. The Doctor tries to hold on, but can't, the fever weakening his grip and sending him falling. He curls in the dust, naked and gasping, hearts racing so fast his chest aches.

The Master crouches over him, and his eyes are yellow, his teeth fanged. He hisses like a wildcat, and growls low. Without warning, he strikes, slashing at the Doctor's back with his claws. The Doctor screams and tries to crawl away, but the Master slashes again, and again. Blood pours from his wounds, staining the sandy ground. The Master licks at his bloodied claws, and purrs in vicious contentment.

The sun burns brighter and brighter, and the Doctor feels as though his flesh is broiling. He cries out for the Master but no help will come. He will die, he will die, he is dying.

He hears distant voices, strange and unreal.

_"The fever is too high."_

_"Then there is no time to waste. Get him inside."_

_"We need ice. Get ice from the yakhchal. Go!"_

The Master crouches close now, fangs bared. He wrenches back the Doctor's head, baring his neck. There is no sense in him now, only animal, and the animal lusts for his death. The Doctor has no defences. He does not struggle. His breath comes in wheezes as he struggles for air. Let the Master take what is his. He is already consumed. He welcomes the feast.

The Master nuzzles at his throat, his rumbling growl betraying his hunger. He opens his teeth and grips at the Doctor's vulnerable skin. His sharp fangs pierce through flesh, and he _bites_ \--

The Doctor gasps awake, fever dream shattered by the shock of ice water. He sits up sharply, sees a circle of faces staring back at him in surprise, and passes out again. The last thing he is aware of is the sensation of hands upon him, catching him as he falls.

§

The sun has gone, and he sleeps. For how long, he does not know. There are moments when he hears voices, when he feels himself lifted and moved, or feels cool, wet pressure on his back. There is a soft pillow beneath his cheek. He is safe and cared for.

Consciousness returns. He rubs at his face and is surprised to find he is no longer bound. He pushes himself up on one arm, and looks down at himself. His skin is clean and scented, soft and free of hair. He thinks they have washed him inside as well as out. He touches his throat and finds the collar there, but with no leash. The rest of him is bare, with the chastity belt gone. His back feels stiff and achey, but not inflamed. 

"Farid told me you were waking up."

The Doctor turns to find the Master standing in the doorway. Not the Master from his fever dream, of course. But there's something different about him 

"You grew a beard," the Doctor says, surprised. 

The Master strokes at his chin. "Do you like it?" He walks in and sits in on the cushions beside the bed. He's changed into a simple black robe, long and with a high collar.

"How long was I out?"

"It's been a week since the whipping," the Master says. "What do you remember?"

The Doctor touches his head. "It's all a blur," he admits. "The fever..."

"You picked up an infection. The medication I had with me wasn't enough to last the full journey back. Fortunately, this era isn't completely primitive. Once the fever was under control, you just needed to sleep." The Master gestures to his beard. "But tell me, honestly: what do you think?" 

The Doctor blinks at him. "Er. Does it need more time to grow?" he offers.

The Master frowns. "You're supposed to say how handsome it looks. 'Oh, Master, it's brilliant,'" he says, with a mocking imitation of the Doctor's voice.

The Doctor tries to think of a diplomatic way to say 'it's a bit rubbish,' and fails. "It's a bit rubbish."

The Master scowls at him. "Just for that, I'm not giving you your present."

The Doctor perks up. "You're giving me a present?"

"Not anymore," the Master says, sternly. But the Doctor pouts at him, and he gives in. "Fine. Have it." He tosses a book at the Doctor, and the Doctor catches it.

" _The Great Diwan_ ," the Doctor reads. "But Rumi hasn't even been born yet!"

"I go through all the trouble of getting you a first edition, and you're complaining?"

"Sorry," the Doctor says. "It's actually... it's perfect. How did you know?"

The Master smirks. "You were mumbling his poetry in your sleep. Along with my name."

The Doctor really, really tries not to blush. "Oh."

The Master holds out his hand. "I can point out a few of them," he offers, smugly.

"No, that's fine," the Doctor says, holding the book close. "Where are we?"

"My palace. This is one of the gentlemen's bedrooms. Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around," the Master repeats, patiently, and sits beside him on the bed. The Doctor puts down the book and turns on the bed, showing the Master his back. The Master lightly traces the healing lines left by the cane and whip. "Most of these will fade eventually," he observes. "But I think these two..." He traces where the whip struck hardest, thick, heavy lines that stretch diagonally across his back. "These will stay. You can think of them as a constant reminder."

The Doctor swallows, silent as the Master admires his back. 

"And this," the Master continues, tracing the burn mark ever so gently. He plants a delicate kiss just at the edge of the wound.

The Doctor remembers the agony of the brand. "It hurt," he says, quietly.

"It's my right to hurt you," the Master says, and kisses further along the wound. "To give you what you need. It's beautiful, the way you _yearn_ for suffering."

The Doctor's breath catches. "I don't, I..."

"Liar," the Master says, warmly. He caresses the thin lines where the whip curled around the Doctor's side. "It frightens you. That's why you ran. You told me yourself."

"No," the Doctor says, weakly, but it's false even to his ears. "I didn't need _that_."

"If you didn't need it, you wouldn't have run," the Master says, tracking the lightest marks, the darker ones. "It's only punishment if you fear it. If you want it, it's a reward."

"A reward," the Doctor echoes, voice high with disbelief.

"I trust I don't have to remind you of your promise," the Master warns, his light touch sharpening, pressing against still-painful wounds. " _Respect_. It would be a mistake to doubt me."

The Doctor hisses in air through his teeth, wincing. "Yes, Master," he manages.

"No," the Master says, his touch easing again. "As long as we're here, you will call me _effendim_. It suits you, as my slave. Say it."

 _My master_ , the Doctor translates. "Yes, _effendim_ ," he says, voice catching slightly.

"Better," the Master says, pleased. He reaches around, resting his hand over the front of the Doctor's collar. "The other half of your promise is submission. You will accept everything I give you, and obey every order. Is that understood?"

"Yes, _effendim_ ," the Doctor says, in almost a whisper. 

The Master's hand tightens on his neck, and pulls him back. The soft fabric of the Master's robe presses against his skin. "I know you're afraid," he says, understandingly. "I also know how much you want this. How much you need it. That's why I'm going to help you." He releases the Doctor's neck. "Turn around."

The Doctor turns on the bed to face him. Despite his near-constant nudity since the Master left him naked in the desert, he still feels exposed when he's like this, bare before the clothed Master. He tells himself it's only that, and not that the Master is right about him. Not that the Master sees through him, and knows in truth what the Doctor can only struggle with.

"You will be trained," the Master tells him, eyes sharp and clear. "Your bad habits will be broken. If you resist, you will only hurt yourself. Deny me, and deny yourself. Give me your respect and submission, and we will both be rewarded." Then he softens. "Whatever you feel, whatever you need, you will tell me. You do not have private thoughts. You do not have secrets. You are no longer your own, because you are mine." He rests his hand on the Doctor's chest. "You may lie to yourself, but never to me."

The Doctor struggles for breath. "Yes, _effendim_ ," he says, voice wavering.

The Master smiles, and kisses him sweetly. "Now I want you to rest. Read your book. Food will be brought to you, and you will eat it. Tomorrow your training will begin."

The Master kisses him again, long and hungry this time, and then stands. He cards his hands through the Doctor's hair, looking down at him with affection, and then he walks away. The Doctor glimpses the guards on the other side of his door as the Master leaves. The doors are closed, and a lock clicks shut.

The Doctor picks up his book from the bed, and holds it close.

§

That night, in his bedroom, the Master lounges back against the pillows with a cup of wine, and he remembers the taste of the Doctor's lips. For all the Doctor's protests, for all his denials, his resistance is an unconvincing, brittle thing. A glass armour that does nothing to protect him, that shatters at the first blow. 

The Master sips at his wine, and loosens his robes. The air is cool on his front as the wine warms him from within. He runs his hand down his chest, his stomach, a lazy touch. He could have any slave brought to him, any beautiful girl or handsome youth to slake his thirst, but not tonight. He wants no distractions from his thoughts.

The Doctor crawling for him, begging for him, helplessly aroused. The Doctor bloodied and sobbing, his tears streaking his face. Beautiful thoughts, to be sure. But he thinks to more distant moments. To a time when he'd yet to decide that the Doctor would be his, willingly and completely.

_"It's time to change. Maybe I've been wandering for too long. Now I'll have someone to care for."_

The Doctor's words, as clear in his mind as they were that day. The day of his defeat, his capture. He'd believed it, at first, that the Doctor meant to _keep_ him, and it had made him furious. To be so demeaned, so _belittled_. To be treated like a prisoner, like a useless child. Those early days, he'd made the Doctor pay. Any chance to hurt him, any spiteful word, any cold rejection, any cruel trick or sabotage. And the Doctor let him. 

Oh, the Doctor made a show of stopping him. If there was someone else caught in the crossfire between them, the Doctor would save them. Each misbehaviour earned the Master a disappointed slump of the Doctor's shoulders, a moralising lecture and a warning about not hurting people anymore. But did he lock the Master up? Did he tighten the TARDIS security? Did he find the nearest maximum security prison and turn the Master in for his crimes? No, those would be _sensible_. They might not have done more than slow the Master down, but it was the thought that counted.

The more the Master hurt him, the more the Master realised that the Doctor was _letting_ him hurt him. The more he realised that the Doctor _wanted_ it. That he was punishing himself, and using the Master to do it. The Master was being used, and he didn't like it. So he stopped.

The Doctor's reaction was simply fascinating. His weariness vanished, replaced by a nervous, restless energy. His familiar tinkering maintenance of the TARDIS became a violent renovation, whole chunks of her systems ripped out at a time. He would break components and stay awake for days fixing them, cutting himself on sharp edges, bruising himself against pipes and heavy coral. He would starve himself as he worked, tense with anger at his own destruction. Yet none of the damage he did to himself seemed _conscious_

Out of curiosity and impatience, the Master confronted him. The Doctor was in an awful state, trying over and over to fix the governing circuit, and each time making it worse. He hadn't slept or eaten in days, and his hands were laced with cuts.

"Look at yourself," the Master had hissed at him. "You're a mess."

"Go away," the Doctor snarled back. "This is your fault! You and your _paradox machine_. I have to get this _fixed_." He yanked at a cable, and it snapped free, sending sparks flying out at them. The Doctor fell to the floor, arm over his eyes, and the Master shoved the cable back in, and sprayed it with sealant foam. 

"You didn't even ground the circuit," the Master said, accusingly. "I wouldn't mind if you were only trying to get yourself killed, but you won't let me _leave_. Let me off the ship and you can rip out the protyon unit for all I care, but until then you will _stop_."

Miraculously, the Doctor didn't argue for once. He looked chastened as he struggled to his feet, singed and bruised. He looked into the Master's eyes only briefly, and then kept them averted.

"Get some sleep," the Master ordered, pointing at the door. "And eat a fucking sandwich. I'll fix this."

And to the Master's surprise, the Doctor went. He did exactly as the Master ordered, and when he reappeared two days later, the nervous restlessness was gone, replaced by something even more intriguing. 

Suddenly, the Master found himself being watched. Not monitored. The Master had been monitored closely those first few weeks, but that had stopped when the Doctor's punishment-seeking behaviour increased. Back then, the Doctor didn't _want_ to know where the Master was; unobserved, the Master could more easily prepare new and crueller ways to hurt him.

But now, the Doctor _watched_. No, more than that, he _spied_. Lurked outside the door when the Master showered, and in the shadows as the Master slept. He'd turned into quite the voyeur, and the Master wasn't sure what to make of it. When he tried to catch the Doctor in the act, the Doctor would feign ignorance, or slink away before he could be confronted.

So the Master set a trap. He stripped for bed, as he always did. Slid under the covers and closed his eyes, as he always did. And waited for the telltale sounds: the soft whisper of fabric, the creep of rubber soles, the Doctor's shallow breathing. 

And still pretending to sleep, he stirred, pushing the covers off a bit at a time. He let the Doctor see him, and held back a smile as the Doctor's breathing became louder, ragged. _Aroused_.

The Master touches himself as he remembers that night. The way he felt the Doctor's eyes upon him, heard the yearning in his silence. The Master had touched himself the same way, then: a slow, sleepy caress down his front, and then his hand wrapping around his cock and stroking. He'd been hard so quickly, with his audience of one. He could smell the Doctor's arousal, mingling with his own.

With just his hand, he brought himself to the edge, and then opened his eyes. He heard the Doctor's breathing stop, but there was no squeak of rubber, no rush to escape. The Master stood and faced him, cock thick and high, and walked towards him without hurry or hesitation. As he drew nearer, he could see the Doctor's eyes, wide in the darkness, the faint glow of light from the hall. He could see the bulge in the Doctor's trousers, cock straining against the fabric, untouched; the Doctor's arms, limp at his sides. 

The Master stopped directly in front of him, and looked him in the eye. Watched as the Doctor looked down, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. Nervousness, or hunger?

The Doctor stared at the Master's cock, stared and swallowed, and haltingly raised his hand towards it. The Master made no move to stop him, merely watched the Doctor, studied him through narrowed eyes, waiting to see what he would do.

The Doctor's long fingers wrapped around his erection, and the Doctor _shuddered_. A dark stain spread across his groin, and lust and guilt and need were bare upon his face. He swallowed a fearful whimper, and for a moment the Master thought he might run, but then his fingers began to move, a trembling stroke forward and back, and then again. With such a sight before him, it didn't take long for the Master to come, spurting messily onto the Doctor's hand and wrist. The Doctor stared down at what he'd done, stammered in shame, and fled.

The Master had let him go. He knew the Doctor would return, would be unable to resist his own impulses. And when he did, there would be no more lurking, no more watching. The next time, the Master would _have_ him.

The Master comes in his hand, letting out a soft, wrenched cry as his cock pulses. He moans and twists his hips, squeezing his slickened hand on his shaft, drawing out his aftershocks. Sated, he sprawls back, letting his pleasure settle in him, and his cock soften.

He would have the Doctor, and see the ecstasy in his suffering. See him laid bare, see the shame in him as he comes. And the Master saw, and he understood. 

The Doctor must be punished, or he will harm himself.

The Doctor must have his need drawn from him, or he will deny himself. 

The Doctor needs the guidance of a strong hand, or he will be weak. 

The Doctor makes an offering of himself, a sacrifice upon the altar, ripe and ready. And like all sacrifices, he must be taken, be claimed, and be consumed. To do anything less would be cruel.

§


	5. Chapter 5

The Doctor is woken before dawn. He's shaken awake by a stranger, a man he blearily recognises as one of the Master's many servants. His copy of _The Great Diwan_ is lying open on his chest; he must have fallen asleep last night as he was reading. 

The book is plucked from his chest. "A slave who reads," says the servant, clearly amused at the concept. He glances at the cover. "Who is this Rumi?"

"A poet," the Doctor says, pushing himself up.

"Any lifetime that is spent without seeing the master," the servant reads, "is either death in disguise or a deep sleep. The water that pollutes you is poison; The poison that purifies you is water." He closes the book, amused, and hands it back to the Doctor. "Come. It is time to wash away your poison." He smiles. "You must be made ready to see your master."

Naked, the Doctor is led through the hall. There are guards at all the exits, and the ones who had been outside his door follow after them. They reach a lamp-lit bath. Baldy is there, pouring hot water into the tub. 

"You will be bathed before every dawn," the servant tells him. "The Emir gave orders, although I do not see why he bothers with such a lowly slave. From the look of your back, you have been a great deal of trouble." He pinches the Doctor's hip. "Not that there is much of you to clean."

The Doctor steps aside, putting distance between them. "I can wash myself," he insists, feeling far too many eyes upon him. He supposes a scrap of dignity would be too much to ask for. Even the humiliation of the chastity belt would offer some modesty.

"If you refuse to cooperate, you choose the difficult path," the servant warns, coldly. "If you resist, you will be bound. If you struggle, we have permission to hurt you." Then he smiles again, showing his teeth.

The Doctor stares back at him, then drops his eyes. Without a word, he climbs into the tub, and sits in the steaming water, arms around his bent knees The servant looks almost disappointed, which is some comfort. 

"I will return," the servant says, coolly, and leaves the Doctor to be washed.

The hot water soothes the Doctor's nerves, and it's somehow reassuring to see Hairy and Baldy again. He suspects they washed him when he was ill, and seem to be assigned to him for the long term. There are no razor-to-the-throat moments--he's cooperative, and they treat him with care.

After the bath, there is no stubble to shave, so he is dried and perfumed. His nails are trimmed and his hair styled, and kohl and lip colour applied. He feels oddly better when the leather collar is returned to his neck and fastened. Aside from the book, it's the only thing he's been allowed to keep. 

The servant returns, carrying the leash. He attaches it to the collar, and tugs at it for the Doctor to stand.

"I did not tell you my name before," the servant tells him. "It is Massoud."

"Massoud," the Doctor says, nodding his head in greeting.

"And you are called _Doctor_. I do not see that you deserve such a title. But I must honour my Emir's wishes." Massoud gives the leash a tug, and the Doctor follows him from the bath. "You are the Emir's personal slave. You are to obey his orders without question or hesitation. When he has no use for you, you will do the same for my orders. Is that understood?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, although he doesn't like it one bit. The guards are behind them again, and he can almost feel them staring at his bare arse. At least they're not staring at the front of him. "Can I have something to wear?"

Massoud smirks. "If the Emir allows. You may ask him yourself, assuming he lets you speak in his presence."

They pass through a windowed hall, and the morning sun brings warmth and light. The Doctor is surprised to see lush greenery, and a morning mist upon the ground; on his fevered journey they must have left the desert behind. They leave the slaves' quarters and enter the heart of the palace, with its high ceilings and white marble. There are decorative engravings above the doors, and hanging down in tapestries; they bear the name _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil_ in their art, the tangle of curves of the Persian style. The Master must have been here longer than a month, even if the artisans had begun work immediately. 

_Possessor of the World, Offspring of the Sun, Son of the Stars._

The Doctor realises that the Master has settled here, as he did in the eighteen months of his climb to Prime Minister. He's made a life, and shows no sign of intending to leave it. 

Some of the art bears only a single symbol, a _miim_. An Arabic M, and he does not doubt what it stands for. It matches the shape of the scar on his shoulder. He has yet to be allowed to see it, but he felt the edges of it last night, learned its lines with care. 

The palace is waking now, and hurrying servants pass them in the hall. None acknowledge him, but all are curious about the Master's new slave, and do not hide their stares. It's not as though they consider him worthy of any respect, and why would they? He's a stranger, his pale skin marking him as an outsider, his lack of clothes and uncovered head displaying his humiliation.

They reach a gate decorated with golden lattice, and the guards open it to let them through, then lock it behind them.

"These are the Emir's private rooms," Massoud explains, gesturing proudly as they walk. "You will remain within these gates. The garden is there." He points to another lattice gate, and the lush green beyond. Further along is a set of double doors, made of beautifully carved and painted wood. "The Emir's bedroom," he says, moving past, "and the Emir's bath."

The bath is guarded by another lattice gate, and Massoud opens it and ushers the Doctor inside. Servants appear and follow them in, one carrying a tray with wine, bread, and fruit, and the others carrying buckets of hot water.

"Kneel," Massoud orders, and tugs downward on the Doctor's leash.

The Doctor kneels beside the tub. There is an interior door to the bath, leading from the Master's bedroom. Massoud arranges him to face it, and places the tray on his upturned hands. 

"Stay," Massoud commands, and hooks the end of the Doctor's leash to the wall. He snaps his fingers, and there is a flurry of activity as the Master's bath is filled, and towels, oils, and perfumes are set out for him. Another snap, and the servants file out.

"Do not move until you are ordered to. I will return when he has finished with you," Massoud says, and gives the Doctor a warning look, that he should not misbehave. He locks the gate behind him, and is gone.

The Doctor looks at the tray of food in his hands, and his stomach growls. But before he can convince himself that the Master won't miss one little slice of bread, the interior door opens.

The Master walks in, hair mussed from sleep, robes hanging loosely. He sees the Doctor, presented for him as surely as the cup of wine on the tray, and he grins a lazy smile. 

"Now this is the life," the Master says, walking over to him. He takes the wine and swigs it back, and a trickle runs from his lips, and down his neck, his chest. He plonks the cup back on the tray, and shrugs off his robes, letting them fall to the tiled floor. Naked, he steps into the steaming, perfumed water, leans back, and sighs. He turns his face away, breathes in, and then turns back to the Doctor with narrowed eyes. 

"Serve me," the Master commands.

The Doctor doesn't move, frozen not by obedience but by his sudden anger. All the humiliation, the cruelties, they heat his blood and make his knuckles whiten. He wants to bash the Master over the head with the tray and run, he wants to whip him and see him bleed. He wants--he wants-- 

The Master leans forward, making the water slosh, and plucks a piece of bread from the tray. He dips it in the oil and presses it to the Doctor's lips.

The Doctor resists, until the taste of olive oil seeps past his lips. He opens his mouth, and the Master presses the bread onto his tongue. The Doctor chews and swallows, and his rage abruptly cools. He suddenly feels stupidly grateful, and wants to cry.

The Master feeds him half of the fruit and oil-dipped bread, eating the rest himself, then tips the dregs of his wine into the Doctor's mouth. 

"There," he says, gently. "Isn't that better?"

The Doctor nods, wishing he had the strength to resist kindness.

"Put down the tray and wash me," the Master orders, softly, his eyes clear and watchful.

The Doctor does as he is told. He takes a washcloth and a cake of soap, and kneels beside the tub and spreads lather on the Master's skin. The leash is taut, the collar firm against his neck; he cannot move away. He keeps his eyes down, focused on his task, and tries to gain control over his emotions.

His movements slow as he washes the Master's thighs. He sees the Master's cock through the rippling water, and as his strokes reach the Master's groin, he lets go of the cloth. He wraps his fingers around the Master's cock, thinking this is what he's meant to do, this is why the Master has kept him, although it makes his chest ache.

But the Master reaches down, and takes his hand away.

"No," the Master says, voice gentle but with utter authority. "I decide when you touch me. I decide how. If I want your hand, or your mouth, or any part of you, I will order you to give it. And what will you say?"

The Doctor's breath catches. He struggles to say the words, although he need not struggle to know what they must be. "Yes, _effendim_."

The Master smiles. "Very good. Now go get that brass decanter there, and a fresh washcloth."

The Doctor goes to the assortment of toiletries, and finds the brass decanter. He sniffs it, and recognises it as the same oil used on him when he was shaved.

"There's a pair of scissors, and a razor," the Master says, as he drapes the sopping towel over the side of the bath. "Bring them. Since you failed to appreciate my beard, I'm going to let you shave it off."

The corner of the Doctor's mouth twitches towards a smile. _Rubbish beard_ , he thinks, and reaches for the razor. As he turns with it in his hand, he thinks that this is a weapon, and he could hold it to the Master's throat and threaten him, or use him as a shield to escape. He _should_ do these things, should find his way back to the TARDIS. But the flare of anger he felt before doesn't return. The idea of leaving feels strange and distant, like a thought that belongs to someone else. 

"What are you thinking about?" the Master asks, a hint of concern in his voice, though probably only for himself.

The Doctor shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Your head isn't _that_ empty," the Master says, frowning. "You know the rules. Tell me."

"I was thinking about escaping," the Doctor says, staring at the gleaming flat of the blade. "Are you going to punish me for that? Whip me until I scream?"

The Master gives a lazy, unconcerned stretch, then rests his head back against the tub and closes his eyes. "Not right now," he says. "Are you going to stand there all day?"

The Doctor gives him a half-hearted glare, as if it's the Master's fault for making him not want to escape. It _is_ the Master's fault, although it eludes the Doctor exactly how he got his claws in. He shakes off his thoughts and brings the shaving items to the Master's side, and sets to work. It's easier to work than sort out his own head.

First, he carefully trims down the Master's scraggly beard. He presses the flat of the blade against the Master's skin, and snips away with the small scissors. The Master is perfectly relaxed, his forehead smooth, his eyes shut as if sleeping. There is only the small smile on his lips, tugging at the corners of his mouth. Trimming done, the Doctor pours oil into his cupped hand, and smears it over the Master's cheeks, chin, and throat. The stubble is sharp against his palm as he rubs the oil in. 

He wipes his hand dry, and takes up the razor. He drags the blade in steady strokes, wiping it clean after each one, shaving each spot again to make it smooth. The Doctor listens to the rasp-rasp of the blade, the twitter of birds in the garden, the distant burble of a fountain, the soft, even sounds of the Master's breathing. He brings the blade to the Master's throat, and isn't sure whether to kiss him or slice him open. He chooses neither.

When he finishes, and sets aside the razor, the Master opens his eyes. He grabs the Doctor by his hair, and pulls him down into a rough, hungry kiss. When the kiss breaks, the Doctor is breathing heavily, and his cheeks are hot. He can taste the Master on his lips.

"This water's cold," the Master murmurs. He holds up his hand, and the Doctor takes it, and helps him out. The Master unhooks his leash from the wall and drops it, then gestures to the towels; the Doctor gets them and dries him with them, dragging the cloth over his body. But before he even finishes, the Master walks away, back to the bedroom. 

"Bring all that," the Master says, gesturing to the toiletries. 

The Doctor empties the food tray and loads it up, tucks the clean towels under his arm, and follows.

Inside the bedroom, light streams in through lattice windows, outshining the oil lamps that decorate the walls. The Master heads for a long divan set upon a sort of open patio, leading out to another private garden. This one is in the paradise style, with a long rectangle of water, and a few well-tended trees. The morning air is warm and sweet, and a breeze ruffles the Doctor's hair. 

"Put down the towels," the Master says, gesturing to the divan. Once it's covered, he lays down on his front, settling comfortably. "A massage," he orders. "Without the happy ending."

"I'll give you a happy ending," the Doctor mutters under his breath.

"What was that?" the Master asks, archly.

The Doctor just gives him a look, and turns to the tray. "Which jar do you want?"

"The one with the cobalt inlay."

The Doctor sniffs it, and finds it smells of jasmine, rich and sweet. He drizzles some along the Master's spine, letting it pool at the small of his back before beginning the massage. The Master groans happily as the Doctor kneads at his flesh.

As the Doctor works, he forgets about the morning's indignities. He finds an easy rhythm, and his hands are slick against the Master's skin, leaving trails of oil that glimmer in the sunlight. It's easy to serve when it's like this, when he can touch the Master, soak up the closeness of him. When the sun is warm on his back and his buttocks, and the moment is peaceful. 

"What did you do?" the Doctor asks, softly. "Those two years, what did you do?"

"Whatever I wanted," the Master replies. He pushes the Doctor's hands away and turns over onto his back. He's half-hard, but merely motions for the Doctor to resume the massage. "There are things you don't fully appreciate until they're gone. Life. Freedom. A fully functioning TARDIS."

"You used to call her an overweight, underpowered museum piece," the Doctor points out.

"That was before I took her off your hands," the Master says, with a private smirk. 

"What did you do to her?" the Doctor asks, with a warning tone.

"Repaired what you couldn't be bothered to. Fixed what you constantly neglected. I wasn't going to put up with her usual erratic landings. Or spend my time explaining why my ship looks like a great big packing crate."

"You fixed the chameleon circuit?!" The Doctor feels _violated_ at the thought, even though he fixed it himself once. "But she likes being a police box!"

The Master snorts. "And _I_ like my ship to blend in."

"She's not your ship," the Doctor says, angrily.

"And she was never yours," the Master says. "You stole her."

The Doctor sputters. "That's hardly the point."

"Imprimatur is nine-tenths of the law?" The Master chuckles. "Then she's still mine."

The Doctor gapes. "You didn't."

"I didn't have to come back," the Master reminds him. "Besides, every TARDIS needs an owner. When I fixed her, she was _so_ grateful. She even forgave me for turning her into a paradox machine."

The Doctor just looks at him, betrayed.

"Don't forget," the Master says, coldly. "You were so busy hurting yourself that you didn't care what you were doing to her. You didn't care what you broke. I was the one who cleaned up your messes. And now, you're going to make it up to me." He sits up, holding out a towel. "Wipe off the oil and dress me. I've had enough of lying around."

The Doctor doesn't move, doesn't speak. It hasn't even sunk in yet, and he's already stunned sick. His TARDIS. _His TARDIS._ Stolen from him, not just in body but in soul. That she chose the Master over him, that she accepted his Imprimatur. The Master must have tricked her. The alternative makes the ground unsteady beneath his feet. 

The Master gives an impatient sigh and stands, dragging the towel over himself to wipe off the oil. "Don't be so melodramatic," he says, unimpressed. "It's not like you were around to give her what she needed. It was for everyone's benefit." He browses through his wardrobe, and selects a set of luxurious robes. "Don't be difficult, Doctor. It doesn't suit you."

Somehow the Doctor finally finds his voice, and it's shaking with rage he can't yet register. "You... you _took_ her. You _took_ \--" He chokes off, throat tight with emotion. "And you think I'll just _accept_ that?"

"You will, if you have any sense," the Master replies, mildly. He shrugs on the robes and shows them off to the Doctor. "What do you think? I designed the dye myself. I call it 'TARDIS blue.'" He grins arrogantly. 

The Doctor's hands curl into fists.

"Do you want to kill me, Doctor?" the Master says, walking slowly towards him. "Do you want to wrap your hands around my neck and squeeze? Because if you did, she could be yours again. She'd need you again. And you're so angry, so hurt, I bet you could do it. Wring my _neck_." He stops an arm's length away, staring the Doctor down. 

The Doctor's lips curl back, baring his teeth. He flexes his hands, once, twice, and for a moment, he isn't sure, for a moment he doesn't know. And then he lunges, grabbing for the Master's neck. The Master laughs in surprise and leaps back, and the Doctor's hands catch on his robes. They tumble to the floor, the Doctor wild with fury, the Master struggling to keep the Doctor's hands from his neck. The Doctor yanks his hand free, and punches the Master in the face. A heavy vase crashes to the floor, and in seconds they hear the sound of running feet.

The guards tear the Doctor away and begin to beat him, kicking his stomach, his ribs, delivering a glancing blow to his head. A foot against his back sends his half-healed scars screaming in renewed agony. 

And then the beating stops. The Doctor lies gasping on the floor, whimpers coming from low in his throat, a haze of pain clouding his vision. Hands grab him and haul him up, and the world spins dizzyingly, fading to grey and then back again. His head is yanked upright by a hand in his hair, and the Master is standing before him, straightening his robes.

"Naughty slave," the Master says, a little out of breath. His lip is bleeding a little, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand. He twists his neck, cracking it, sniffs and straightens up. "Give him a rag to wear and take him outside. Clear the site and set him to work, without help and without rest. Bring him here when it's dark."

The Doctor yells and struggles as the guards haul him away. The Master waves to him as the doors close, and he's dragged into the hall, past the guarded gate. A worn, dirty cloth is yanked around his waist, and he doesn't care that it's the fragment of dignity he wanted. He only cares about breaking free and making the Master _pay_.

The guards drag him through the palace and outside, and the Doctor struggles harder. If he can break free, if he can _escape_ \-- A sharp smack to his head stuns him, and he goes limp in his captors' arms. His feet drag trails in the dirt, although he stumbles to walk.

They stop and throw him to the ground. A metal collar is snapped around his neck, over his leather collar, and secured with a heavy lock. Two long chains become his new leashes. When they release him, he coughs the dust from his lungs and struggles to his feet. 

He's in a construction site of some kind. He sees the workers being herded away, and looks at the wide circle of stones that form the foundation, rising out of the earth. Hundreds of blocks of stone are stacked to the side, fresh from some quarry. 

Massoud appears, looking far too pleased. He has a long scroll in his hand. He opens it, and clears his throat. "The minaret will be two hundred feet high, and one hundred twenty feet wide at the base. It will be a great testament to our Emir, who defied death and exile to return to us. You will build it for him."

" _What?_ "

Although it defies the laws of physics, Massoud looks even more smug. "That is your task. As punishments go, it is a great honour. You should be pleased to have the opportunity to serve your Emir."

"What if I don't want to serve him?" the Doctor snaps, angrily.

"Ah," Massoud says, lowering the scroll. "If you defy your Emir, you forfeit yourself. I doubt he will have you killed. Instead, he will find the cruellest master and sell you to him. Perhaps it will even be me. I do not share my Emir's proclivities, but that does not mean I would not make full use of what is mine."

The Doctor has no reply to that, except to glare in sullen fury. He could withstand beatings, even the worst of them, but that's not what Massoud is promising. "Fine," he says, tightly. What am I supposed to do?"

Massoud directs him, following the architect's plans. The heaviest foundation stones are already in place, but given the extent of the task before him, it's the smallest of mercies. It would take an army to complete it. But that hardly matters; he'll have escaped from this madness long before the minaret is finished.

A stone was left on the foundation, abandoned when the workers were dismissed. The Doctor braces himself against it and shoves with all his might. At first it doesn't so much as budge, but he keeps pushing, and at last it begins to grind slowly forwards. He feels a bitter satisfaction. He has no desire to build monuments in the Master's honour, none at all. But it seems he has no choice. If the threat of rape wasn't enough deterrence, there are always the guards, with their swords and whips and painful kicks. His ribs still ache from the few already delivered. He needs to be healthy to escape, not injured or ill with fever. To get back to his ship.

His ship, _his_. He can't believe that she's left him. The Master has stolen her before, damaged her badly, but somehow this is a greater violation. No TARDIS can be forced to take an owner, not really. Any Time Lord can pilot a TARDIS, but that's merely _driving_. To own a TARDIS is to have a ship that sings to you, that tends to you. A living creature that is in symbiosis with your very soul. And she chose the Master.

He thinks he might be angrier with her than he is with the Master. He knows the Master's nature. He is the scorpion who stings the frog, and the Doctor is the frog who trusts despite his knowledge, who trusts and takes the deadly sting. 

He should have known it would end this way. That keeping the Master would be his own undoing. How could it be otherwise, when the Master delights in his cruelties? The Doctor knew this, and yet chose to take the Master with him, chose to hold the scorpion close. And the Master stung and stung, but still the Doctor could not, would not let go.

It was that pain that drove him to his madness, his frenzied work on the TARDIS. To rip out her systems piece by piece, without regard for her pain or his own safety. The Master was right. He had hurt her deeply, and perhaps that pain was worse for her because of her trust in him, because he had betrayed her and himself. And it was the Master who stopped him, who soothed her systems and made them like new. The Doctor had watched the care with which the Master worked, and felt a strange jealousy: for her, and for the Master. He felt out of joint, ungrounded and lost, and yet unable to help himself, unable to reach out to either of them. And so he watched and he yearned, until one night he could no longer resist. Until the Master saw him, and saw his pain, and _welcomed_ it. 

Even those bare seconds had overcome him. He had run, ashamed at his weakness, his need. But the Master had not used that night against him. There were no jeering taunts. But the Doctor's wounds were self-inflicted, and he tormented himself for his sins. He determined to keep his distance, to control himself, yet control eluded him. And when he returned to the Master's room, he was overcome again, but the Master did not let him run. The Master had always been greedy, and would not resist the Doctor's fearful offering. The fear only made it better.

That night, the Master took him. Held him down and fucked him. It wasn't kind, it wasn't sweet. But kind and sweet would have only hurt more. It felt better to be roughly grabbed, to be shoved against a dresser. For his trousers to rip their seams as they were yanked down, and for his eyes to water as the Master's fingers pushed inside him. He was grateful for scratches when he wanted to bleed, grateful for bruises when he wanted to ache. Grateful that the Master came inside him, and left him hard and untouched, and pushed him to the floor. That the Master stood over him and watched as he wrapped a shaking hand around his own cock, as he tugged roughly at it and came with a sob. That he was allowed to struggle to his feet and run away, and not once meet the Master's eyes.

He was so grateful, he thinks, bitterly, that he let the Master do it to him again. That he fucked the Master just as coldly. And so it went, and he was grateful even as he was dying inside, because it wasn't what he wanted at all, and it never could be. But he couldn't stop himself, no matter how hard he tried. There was only one balm, and he was no balm at all. And again it was the Master who ended the pain, with that drugged cup of tea. Ended it only to give him a new pain, and to take his ship from him.

The frog trusted not because he was naive, or because he was generous. He trusted because he craved the sting, and would die to have it.  

§


	6. Chapter 6

The work is cruelly hard, and could not be mistaken for anything but a punishment. The Doctor is compelled by constant threat, by the point of sword and whip. The sun beats down upon him, bright and relentless.

For food, he is given mere spoonfuls of thin slave's gruel; for drink, the weak, sour tea that no one else would touch. He's reminded of the poor meals he refused in protest of his slavers, but now he is bitterly grateful for the little he's given. He is allowed even less rest than food, only spare minutes when he collapses from temporary exhaustion.

They do not let him stop until the last trace of the sun has left the sky. Sunset takes forever, and twilight lingers. When the sky deepens to black, he falls to his knees, filthy with grime and sweat, and at last they do not force him to stand and drag and push another heavy stone. He wants to cry with relief, but has no chance as he is yanked up by the chains on his collar, and dragged stumbling from the work site. 

His legs are weak, and his knees give way. Two guards grab him by his arms and drag him on, with his legs trailing in the dirt. He tries to walk again, only to go limp in their arms. His head hangs down, and he stares blearily at the ground as it moves beneath him, at the end of his leather leash as it swings and catches.

Outside the palace, they stop and drop him to the ground. He trembles onto his hands and knees, and then cries out in shock as ice-cold water is poured over him, bucket after bucket. It rinses off the worst of the filth, and leaves him shivering and stunned.

His teeth chatter loudly as they drag him inside. They pass the palace's lavish rooms, with their high, beautiful ceilings, painted with complex patterns. Gold leaf shines dully in the lamplight, and lush, vivid paints seem to make the patterns come alive. And everywhere is the Master's _miim_ , the Master's name, claiming every wall and ceiling; every room and hall, and all within them.

When his bare feet touch the soft rugs of the Master's bedroom, the Doctor almost sobs. His feet are sore and bruised from the work site, from endless pebbles and sharp-edged rocks. His weeks of walking would have helped, but for the softness of his earlier treatment. The long, hot baths, the soft towels, and the beds, oh the beds. He longs to sleep, to wake from all this and find it was all a dream. _Not a nightmare_ , he thinks, but is too tired to wonder why.

The bedroom smells of food. Roast lamb, rice, spices. His mouth is wet with hunger, and his stomach feels hollow. The Master is reclining in a seat, eating bits of food from a laden platter. There is too much on it for even two to eat. He can't stop staring at it, no matter how hard he tries, and his eyes follow the Master's fingers as they grasp a piece of lamb, as they pop it into the Master's mouth. The Master chews slowly, savouring the morsel, lewdly sucking his fingers clean. He looks down at the Doctor, then selects another piece and holds it out, offering it.

"Go on," the Master urges.

The Doctor wants badly to take it, but he keeps still, refusing in sullen defiance. His anger with the Master has hardly been cooled by a day of hard labour and cruelty, and the morning's news still hurts like thorns in his chest. The Master might have stolen her, but she _chose_. She chose the Master over him, and though he's betrayed and he's hurt, it's guilt he feels most, because he knows he drove her away. And now he's alone, in a way he's never been. There was always someone, until now. But he doesn't want them back, doesn't want to need anymore, when need only brings pain.

No, the only thing he needs is pain, strong and sharp to blot out the suffering he can't escape. He needs to starve and thirst, to drive his body past its limits, to break himself upon the Master's cruelty, because only that will bring relief.

He shivers with exhaustion and ignores the food, ignores the Master. But if the Master is aware of his rebellion, he shows no sign of it.

The Master eats the lamb he had offered, and then sends the rest of the food away. He stands up, and servants move to take his robes, and to dress him for the night. 

"You worked hard for me today," he says, smoothing down a wrinkle. "You served me well, and for that I am inclined to forgive your little outburst." He looks down at the Doctor. "You might not be hungry, but I know you're tired. I know you want so much to put your head down and sleep."

The Doctor ignores the Master's coaxing tone. He remains silent, refusing to engage. He can't resist a sideways glance at the bed, but he tells himself he doesn't want it. 

The Master goes over to the bed, and gives the mattress a pat, as if encouraging the Doctor to hop up onto it like a pet. But then he walks along to the end of the bed, hand dragging along the soft covers, and he stops and crouches down. "This is where you will sleep," he says, a gentle command. He pats the rug at the foot of the bed. "This is your bed. I might allow you a pillow, if I'm feeling generous." He rises to his feet, looking stern. "But I expect you to earn your sleep."

The Master stands there, expectant. The silence stretches on, until the Doctor has no choice but to break it.

"How?" he rasps, tersely.

The Master smiles warmly. "I'm so glad you asked. First, you will kneel at my feet. And you will thank me, for whatever you're most grateful for." He steps closer. "And then you will think back over your day, and tell me when you were most upset, or most happy. And you will tell me what made you feel that way, and why. _Now._ "

The Doctor hides his horror beneath a furious glare. " _No_ ," he spits.

The Master's smile shifts into a frown. "If you don't do this, you will not have permission to sleep," he warns.

The Doctor knows he should just say something. Make something up. He should just _lie._ But he can't. His throat feels tight with fear, and he can say nothing at all.

The Master warns him again. "Speak, Doctor. Silence is something you'll learn to regret."

But the Doctor just glares at him, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Instead of the expected fury, the Master goes coolly calm. "You had your chance. You'll have another one tomorrow night." He snaps his fingers, summoning the guards. "Take him away," he tells them. "Have him scrub all the floors in the palace by morning. If he tries to speak, to ask for anything, gag him." He turns back to the Doctor. "If he refuses to speak to me, he will not be allowed speech."

The Doctor struggles furiously as they haul him away. "Let me go!" he screams, over and over, until a sharp cuff to the head stuns him into silence. A cloth is stuffed into his mouth, and a gag tied to hold it there. He struggles again, but weaker now, and the guards keep a strong hold on him as they drag him through the halls.

When they stop, the Doctor is dropped to the floor. He looks up at the room and does not recognise it. A bucket of soapy water is put before him, with rags floating inside.

"Start scrubbing, _slave_ ," a guard spits, and taps the bucket with his foot, making water slop over the side.

The Doctor glares up at him, but grabs a rag from the bucket. On his hands and knees, he begins to scrub at the floor. The guards watch over him, making sure he keeps to his task here as he did at the building site. It's less grueling than moving huge blocks of stone, but he's already exhausted and there is always another floor to scrub, another bucket for the rags. The gag makes his mouth dry, and sharpens his thirst. His eyes are so heavy, but if he stops for more than a few seconds, the guards prod at him with their feet, giving him no rest at all. 

The night seems as endless as the day, yet when dawn comes, he's barely finished half the rooms. The guards take him, abandoning his work. His arms are limp as noodles, and he's too exhausted to struggle, and doesn't fight as they half-carry him along.

The Master is having his morning bath, being washed by servants. A guard bows, and informs the Master of the Doctor's failure.

"I see," the Master says, calmly. "Remove the gag."

The gag is removed, and the cloth pulled from the Doctor's mouth. His tongue feels thick and his mouth parched, and he smacks his lips, trying to summon a bit of moisture. He should be angry, should be defiant, but he doesn't have the energy.

"Apologise," the Master orders, imperious. 

The Doctor says nothing. He refuses to give in, and hasn't the strength to fight.

The Master waves away his servants, and leans forward in the bath. "Don't think you can out-stubborn me. I can wait as long as it takes, but you don't have that luxury. Apologise now, and you'll be given food and water."

The Doctor doesn't move, doesn't speak.

The Master looks disappointed, and almost pitying. He leans back in the bath and motions for the servants to resume. "Take him back to the work site," he orders, and the guards take the Doctor away.

This time, he barely has the strength to move the stones. He's fed a little, and given sips of water, but only when he nearly passes out. He almost doesn't care if they beat him, if it means he can sleep. He's beyond hunger and thirst, and sleep consumes his thoughts. To lie down even in the dirt and close his eyes, and rest. He wants it more than anything. But every time his eyes close, they prod him awake, and he is denied.

He's so tired. By the time the sun finally sets, he's on the verge of tears of exhaustion and misery. When he's drenched in ice water, he sobs, unable to bear any more. He just wants it to stop. _Please, make it stop._

In the Master's bedroom, the guards shove the Doctor to the floor. The Master is having dinner, and the smell of food is physically painful, intolerable on top of unbearable. The Doctor's whole body is rebellious against him, ill and trembling and weak.

"Mmm," the Master says, patting his full belly. "That was delicious." He picks up a cup dripping with condensation, and drinks deeply. A bowing servant takes away the empty dishes, and another replaces them with a small cup of _doogh_. The Master takes a sip of the doogh and groans as he holds it on his tongue.

The Master takes his time, unhurried by the Doctor's presence. When he's almost finished, he offers the Doctor the last dregs. The Doctor stares at it dumbly, not knowing what to do. But when he does nothing, the Master shrugs and drinks it himself. A servant takes it away, and the Master stands and walks to the Doctor.

"You must be so tired," the Master says, with some sympathy. "I'm going to give you another chance to earn your sleep. Are you ready to try?"

The Doctor opens his mouth, but no words come. He stares at the Master's feet, desperate to speak, to plead for sleep, but he can't. His face crumples with distress, but he's too dry for tears.

The Master looks down at him, and frowns in disappointment. 

A pathetic, desperate sound escapes the Doctor's throat, but the words he needs are trapped, stopped up inside him. He looks up at the Master, pleading silently for him to understand, to let him stay. But the Master simply shakes his head.

"I know you want to obey me," the Master says, not unkindly. "I know you want forgiveness. But I can't make an exception. This is too important. If you don't speak, you will not sleep."

The Doctor hangs his head in failure, and the Master sighs. "Take him away," he says.

This time, the Doctor doesn't struggle. He lets them grab him and drag him from the room. He only looks back at the Master until the doors close.

Though he barely has the strength to stand, he's brought back to the first room he cleaned the night before. It's hardly dirty at all, but again he is given a bucket and rags, and again the guards watch, and offer only torment to keep him awake. 

His knees hurt from the hard floor, his muscles ache from days of relentless abuse. There are bruises from the guards, scrapes from the rough stone, and his hands are chapped and red. He's brought a fresh bucket, and out of desperation, he tries to drink the soapy water. The guards almost strangle him as they yank him back by the chains on his metal collar, and thick fingers are forced down his throat until he gags and vomits. When the few mouthfuls of water are out of him, he lies gasping on the floor, allowed a few minutes to recover, and then is made to clean up the mess. His throat burns, and his stomach aches terribly, but he cleans room after room.

He finishes only a fraction of the floors by dawn, and when the guards drag him up, his knees simply give way. He can no longer stand on his own, and so they carry him.

The Master is on the patio, fresh from his morning bath. Servants massage his back and his limbs, and his skin is gleaming with oil. The Doctor waits, a miserable wreck on the floor. 

The servants finish, then dry the Master and dress him. When he is ready, the Master stands before them, expectant. A guard bows and tells of the Doctor's failure, and of his attempt to drink.

The Master frowns. "Failure and disobedience," he says, displeased. "Unable to complete a simple task, to follow a simple order. You've disappointed me, Doctor, and I think you don't deserve another chance." 

The Doctor gives a dry sob, and buries his face against his arm. He's so tired, worn down to the bone. He's sorry, he's so sorry, but it's too late, and if it's too late he wants to die.

"Look at me," the Master orders, sternly.

With great effort, the Doctor raises his head. The Master stares down, meeting his eyes, seeming to trap the Doctor in his gaze. _Please_ , the Doctor mouths, silent. _Please_.

The Master sees this, and softens. "One more chance," he says, and waits.

The Doctor feels a burst of relief, and he works his mouth, trying to speak But his mouth is parched and throat raw, and can manage only a frail rasp Out of desperation, he struggles forward, his crawl a trembling shuffle of limbs. He speaks in the only way left to him, by prostrating himself at the Master's feet, by pressing his forehead to the Master's slippers. 

The Master's slippers slide out from beneath him, and the Doctor's forehead presses against the floor. He has nothing left in him to give. He breathes out in a broken sob, and ends the struggle. Let the Master save him or kill him, it doesn't matter anymore. 

A hand strokes at his hair, and then cups his cheek, and draws him to raise his head. The Master is crouched before him, a cup of water in his hand. He places it to the Doctor's lips, and pours him tiny sips of water. The Doctor drinks, and shudders with gratitude. The cup is taken away, and he is fed a bit of egg, a bit of cheese. Scraps of food, because his body can only bear that much. He's given more sips of water, and then allowed to rest, his head cradled in the Master's hands.

After a few minutes, he tries to speak, and finds he can. "I'm sorry," he says, voice raspy and trembling. "I'm sorry, _effendim_ , I'm sorry. _Please_."

And the Master smiles down at him, and says, fondly, "That's all you had to say."

The Doctor sobs, almost hysterical with relief. The Master lets his head down, and stands, and motions for the Doctor to be lifted up onto his knees. The Doctor looks up to the Master, hoping that now he can sleep, and thinking that even a bare floor would be bliss.

"The worst is over," the Master tells him, and reaches down to soothe his brow. "My servants will take good care of you. But you have to wait until tonight to sleep."

"No," the Doctor whines, distraught. "Please, I can't... I'm so tired..."

"You had your chance last night," the Master reminds him. "You'll have another one this evening." He smiles. "I hope you haven't forgotten the rules." He stands, and gestures to the door, and the guards take the Doctor away.

The Doctor is no less exhausted now, but the day does go easier for him. He's washed with hot water and sponges, and dressed in a clean, white loincloth and sandals. He's fed fresh fruit, flat bread and egg and cheese, and all the strong, sweet tea he wants. He's still made to work, hauling the same stones to build the base of the minaret, but the heavy metal collar and chains are removed, and he's allowed short rests every hour, as long as he doesn't try to sleep.

But what really keeps him awake, keeps him going, is the nervous energy that builds in him through the day, that burns through his exhaustion. As his body is worked, his mind is struggling to find the right words. Although he begged to be allowed to speak that morning, he realises the Master was right to make him wait. Even as the sun sinks low in the sky, he is still measuring his words over and over, practicing to find the right words, the right order of them. He does not know what he wants to say, except that it must not be false, not sound like he doesn't mean it.

Was it always so hard to talk about his feelings? He remembers it being easier, even natural, but at some point that changed. At some point, he forgot how to speak, and merely talked, rambled, shouted. Fast and loud and anything but the truth, anything but how he felt, because his misery was too great, too private. And having lost the habit, he finds it so hard to start again.

At sundown, he is fed again, washed and changed. At the entrance of the palace, he is given soft slippers to wear. As he nears the Master's bedroom, dread twists inside him. He still doesn't know what to say, and fears he'll end up blurting out the wrong thing. To lose another night's sleep would be awful enough, but he doesn't want to fail the Master again.

He kneels on the floor of the Master's bedroom, waiting for the Master to finish his dinner, to be ready for him. The Doctor's head is bowed in respect, and in thought. The Master ignores him completely until the food is gone, until he is resplendent in his night robes, until the servants have completed their tasks and been dismissed.

They're alone, but the Doctor does not raise his head, so lost in his tangled thoughts. And then the Master says, softly, "Come here."

The Doctor looks up, then, and sees that the Master is waiting for him. He crawls forward, stopping at his feet, head bowed, hands flat on the floor. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know, and inside he is dying.

"Raise your head," the Master orders.

The Doctor obeys, although his eyes are red, and his chin trembling, and his muscles jump with tiredness. 

The Master looks warmly upon him. "You kneel beautifully, Doctor."

The Doctor's breath catches, and his trembles suddenly ease. His fear begins to recede, because the Master is glad.

"I know this is hard for you," the Master continues. "So I'm going to help you through it. Show me you can speak."

The Doctor swallows, and struggles, and finally rasps, " _Effendim_."

" _Good_ ," the Master says. "Now, you're going to think about your day About when you felt grateful. Did you feel grateful today, Doctor?"

"Yes, _effendim_ ," the Doctor rasps.

"Tell me what you were most grateful for." The Master looks down at him, eyes clear and sharp.

The Doctor has struggled with this all day, thought and thought, and finally lets the words come before his fear can stop them. "Your forgiveness," he says, and it's honest and true.

The Master is visibly pleased, and the Doctor feels a rush of relief, of joy. His chest loosens, and he knows he can do this. He can give the Master his words.

"Now think back over your day," the Master continues. "There was a moment when you felt something so strongly that it was almost unbearable. Tell me what it was, and why it made you feel that way."

The Doctor's throat feels tight again, but not because he thinks he can't speak. He remembers the depth of his despair as he scrubbed the floors, the intensity of his relief when the Master brought the cup of water to his lips. But there's one moment, one emotion, that dwarfed them both. "I wanted to die," he rasps, ashamed. 

The Master cocks his head. "Go on."

"When I tried to drink the wash water. And they wouldn't let me, made me... I wanted to die."

"Why?" the Master asks, calmly.

The Doctor shakes his head, struggling.

"Tell me," the Master says, an edge of warning in his voice.

"There was nothing," the Doctor spits out, with a burst of emotion. "I was nothing. Everything was... it hurt. And I thought... you never cared. That it was just pain."

"You thought you could never earn my forgiveness?" the Master asks, without judgement.

The Doctor shakes his head, because it's more than that. More terrible than forgiveness. "I can't," he stammers, on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't." He's never going to sleep, he's going to be worked until his body fails, because the Master could never... could never...

But the Master is suddenly kneeling before him, and pulling him close. The Doctor buries his face against him and sobs, and the Master hushes him, stroking his back.

"It's all right," he says, gently. "Shhh. it's all right."

The Master keeps holding him, until the Doctor's sobs taper off. The Doctor pulls back from his arms, and looks away, ashamed. But the Master cups his cheek, and turns him to face him, and says, simply, "You may sleep now."

The Doctor lets out a sob of gratitude, and takes a shaky breath. The Master takes hold of his leash and stands, and guides him to the foot of the bed He kisses his forehead, and places a pillow on the floor, and guides the Doctor down to rest his head there. The Doctor curls up on the rug, so tired.

The Master hooks the leash to the bedpost. He takes a blanket, and covers the Doctor with it, tucks it around him. He kneels and tenderly brushes back the Doctor's hair.

"Sleep," the Master says, and there's no distinction between permission and order.

The Doctor closes his eyes, and sleeps.

§


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, the Master rises at his usual time. He slept particularly well, satisfied even in his sleep, as his dreams replayed the Doctor's confessions and torments. Silently, he crawls to the end of his bed and looks down. The Doctor is still deeply asleep, tightly curled beneath the blanket, one hand clutching at the small pillow. His moment of submission was pure and beautiful, and the Master is hungry for another taste.

The end of the Doctor's leash is tied to the bedpost, and the Master touches it lightly, caressing the knot, the long curve down towards the Doctor's collar. The sight of it fills him with power, makes him feel like a god. Just a few strips of leather, but so much more than that. He wants to bind the Doctor's body in leather, see him writhe and his flesh strain. Submission is beautiful, but there's such joy in the struggle.

The Master quietly slips out of bed, and rings for his servants to begin their morning routines. He goes to the end of the bed and sits down, cross-legged on the floor next to the Doctor, and watches the even rise and fall of his breathing. 

_His greatest stimulation_. He called the Doctor that once, and it's still true. There's something about the Doctor that has always driven him to greatness, whether through mutual inspiration or violent destruction. The Doctor inspired him to conquer, and to return from his empires to create this empire in miniature, this place where his rule is absolute, where he may focus on the Doctor's re-creation. The Doctor has always been full of potential, but never has it been so raw and unguarded. The Master will not let this opportunity pass without full exploitation. The Doctor has already shown that he can learn; it only falls to the Master to teach him.

The Master pulls back the blanket, exposing the Doctor's body. The short loincloth, already barely enough to cover him, has ridden up to his waist in the night. His soft cock is nestled against his thigh, pushed forward by his balls. The Master arranges them into a more pleasing position, squeezing and fondling, until the Doctor stirs in his sleep. The Master leaves him exposed, and rests his hand on the Doctor's neck, covering his collar.

The Doctor stirs again, and his eyes flutter open. He swallows and makes a soft sound, and his eyes focus on the Master, his last and first sight. He tries to raise his head, but the Master holds him down with a firm grip.

"Good morning," the Master greets, contentedly.

He can see that the Doctor is not properly awake yet. The Doctor looks briefly afraid, then confused, and then his eyes widen as he remembers.

"Ma-- _Effendim_?" the Doctor says, a question of a greeting. 

The Master strokes the edge of the collar with his thumb, just brushing skin. The Doctor looks up at him, uncertain but beginning to relax. Good.

"Tell me how you feel," the Master orders, softly.

The Doctor tenses again, squeezes his eyes shut.

"Look at me," the Master says, with a hint of sternness. 

The Doctor opens his eyes, looks up to him. He licks his lips nervously.

"You're afraid," the Master says, knowingly. "You should be. Fear is a teacher. It tells you what you need to hear. What do you think your fear is telling you now?"

The Doctor licks his lips again, and his brow furrows. "It says..." he begins. "I don't know. I..." 

The Master looks at him pointedly. "Yes?" he prompts.

"I don't want to be grateful," the Doctor says, voice rough from sleep and emotion. "I shouldn't be."

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong. Wanting this, any of it. I'm not your slave. I don't want this. I want you to let me go." The Doctor's voice is trembling now, and the Master can feel his pulses quickening.

"Tell me," the Master says, thoughtful. "What are you more afraid of: that you don't want this, and I won't let you leave, or that you do want this, and I won't let you stay?"

The Doctor looks away, face drawn in shame and confusion. 

"Answer," the Master says, "or I'll decide for you."

"Second," the Doctor says, almost a whisper.

"The second?" the Master prompts, and the Doctor nods. The Master softens his grip, but doesn't let go. "It's easier to deny yourself than to want," he says, understandingly. "You've been punishing yourself, but that stops now. Your pain is mine to give and to deny. You will learn that lesson as many times as it takes for you to remember it." He gives a menacing smile. "There are many things I enjoy just as much as hurting you, and I do like variety."

The Master releases the Doctor's neck, and grabs his hair, using it to pull him up. The Doctor winces as he rises. The Master suddenly kisses him, wanting to taste his pain, to swallow it. The Doctor whimpers into his mouth, tapering off as the Master loosens his grip.

The Master ends the kiss, and strokes the Doctor's hair, smoothing it down. The Doctor looks so lost, so deliciously torn. A servant knocks, and the Master calls for him to enter.

The Doctor suddenly realises that his genitals are exposed, and tugs at his loincloth to cover himself. The Master pushes his hand away, and rests his own over the Doctor's groin, cupping him. The Doctor starts to harden against his palm; he blushes and turns his face away, and the Master relishes his shame. Servants enter, bringing trays of food and tea, and set them on the floor next to them. They bow, and leave to wait outside the door.

The Master removes his hand. "Sit up," he orders. "Cross your hands behind your back."

The Doctor pushes himself up, again tugging at his loincloth, trying in vain to cover his erection. He gives a frustrated sound and abandons the task, and puts his hands behind his back, pouting. The Master smirks, and pushes the thin cotton aside. The Doctor's cock is still slowly rising, and the Master wraps his hand around the shaft and squeezes. The Doctor moans softly, and his breathing shallows and quickens.

"Tell me how you feel," the Master says again. When the Doctor doesn't immediately reply, he continues. "I decide your pleasure as well as your pain. I decide your hunger, your sleep. There is nothing in you that is not mine. You will tell me your thoughts when I ask for them. You will tell me your feelings when I ask for them."

"A-aroused," the Doctor stammers.

"What else?" the Master presses.

"Ashamed. I shouldn't want..." The Doctor shakes his head. "Please, stop."

"No," the Master says, calmly. He strengthens his strokes, coaxing the Doctor's erection to fullness. 

"Please," the Doctor whispers, closing his eyes. He moans shakily, bites at his lip.

The room is quiet but for distant birdsong and the Doctor's ragged breathing. The Master takes oil from the breakfast tray and drizzles it on the head of the Doctor's cock. He wraps his fist around the head and squeezes and strokes, slicking the shaft. The Doctor openly groans, his cock thick and hot, a flush spreading across his chest.

"Open your eyes," the Master says, and the Doctor's eyes are full of raw emotion, glazed with arousal. "Beg for me."

"Please," the Doctor begs, voice tight. " _Effendim_. _Effendim_. _Please_."

The Master gives a moan of pleasure, and leans closer, smelling the Doctor, the musk of his arousal, the honey-salt of his sweat, and the tang of leather. He is full of richness, full of life. The conquering of worlds is a vocation, but the conquering of the Doctor is a fervour. It is his lifelong passion, his great devotion, and he is drunk from every sip. A thousand years and he has never stopped wanting. A thousand more and he will never be full.

"My _ushaq_ ," he murmurs, breathing his words against the Doctor's skin. "A slave to your god. A lover to your god. That's what you are." The Master kisses him again, tongue delving into the Doctor's mouth. His mouth is so sweet, the Master must force himself to end it. He releases the Doctor's cock and runs an oiled thumb across the Doctor's lower lip, so full and pouting.

"Your lips miss their paint," the Master says, slicking the oil like gloss. He kisses the Doctor again, his _ushaq_ ; kisses and tastes his handiwork. When he pulls back, the Doctor's eyes are lidded, his long lashes shadowing his eyes. The Master touches his temple. "And here," he says, remembering the kohl, the way it made the Doctor's eyes even larger, even more beautiful. "A slave must always be decorated for his _effendim_."

The Doctor takes a ragged breath, and the Master touches him, stroking his arms, his chest. Soothes and hushes him. "There is nothing good without pain," the Master reassures him. "Your Rumi knew that." He recalls the many poems he read while the Doctor recovered from his fever. "What was that line? First you must feel pain. To be without pain is to use the first person wrongly.'"

"'If a rooster crows early, when it's still dark, he must have his head cut off,'" the Doctor recites, eyes distant.

The Master gives him an indulgent smile. "'What is this beheading?'" he continues. "'As one might extract a scorpion's sting to save it, or a snake's venom to keep it from being stoned, headlessness comes from your cleansing connection to a teacher.'" He pauses, waiting for the Doctor to continue.

"'Hold--hold to a true sheikh,'" the Doctor says, stumbling a little. "Strength will come. Your strength is his gathering you closer.'"

The Master rests his hand against the Doctor's chest. "'Soul of the soul of the soul, moment to moment, hope to draw breath from that one.'"

"'No matter how long you've been apart,'" the Doctor says, voice again tight with emotion. "'That presence has no separation in it.'" He turns his face away. "You're not a _god_."

"No," the Master says, calmly. "I am your Lord. I am your day and your night. The air in your lungs, the marrow in your bones." He cups the Doctor's cheek and turns his face back to him. "You already know this, or you would never have begged for me, my _ushaq_. My most devoted." 

"This is madness," the Doctor whispers; he trembles in the Master's gaze, but does not look away.

"The Great Diwan," the Master says, recalling the book he gave the Doctor, the book the Doctor so clung to on his first night after the fever. "The poetry of worship, of purification. Of the reparation of the heart, and utter submission to one's Lord." He gives the Doctor a knowing look. "But you do not bow to a mere god of Earth. There is only one name you breathe like a prayer."

"No," the Doctor lies, so full of shame. "I don't need-- _this_. _You_."

"You were killing yourself," the Master says, letting the edge back into his voice, letting the Doctor see that he matters, that he is cared for. "'I was the medicine for every illness,'" he quotes. "'but from the pain of others I did not escape.' You've been trying to die for a long time now. And when you found me, I was the sword you threw yourself on. I was the altar for your sacrifice. You gave yourself to me countless times. It was long past time that I accepted." 

"And what does that mean?" the Doctor asks, revealing his fear. "Acceptance?"

"It means you do not escape," the Master says, with utter authority. And then he softens, and recites, "'Forget the war and cruelty inside yourself, and I will lay my hand on your tightened hearts. I will restore what you have broken.'"

Despair flares in the Doctor's eyes, old and bitter. "Nothing can," he says, bleakly. 

The Master slaps him, hard across the cheek. The Doctor stares in shock, a handprint reddening on his face. But he never raises his hands, never moves them from his back.

"I take your pain," the Master says, his anger barely restrained. "I do not give it back. You beg for me in your dreams, in your fevers, and I take _all_ of you. I give _nothing_ back." He cups the Doctor's reddened cheek, and the Doctor flinches, but does not pull away. "You broke yourself, but I have already begun to melt you down. I will cast you in a new mould." He presses his hand firmly at the centre of the Doctor's chest. "And when I break that mould, I will be at your heart."

The Doctor's eyes shine with tears, but when he breathes it is a shudder of sharp relief. Fear and gratitude war on his features, and he bows his head, a pleading submission. 

"What is your fear telling you now?" the Master asks, gently.

The Doctor swallows a sob. " _Please_ ," he whispers, voice thick with sadness, with need.

"I will take your sting," the Master promises. "I will be your strength." He draws the Doctor into his arms, holding him as he trembles. He touches the Doctor in soothing strokes, his hand circling around to the Doctor's neck, to the bumps of his spine. And at the base of his skull, the Master presses his hand flat, and pushes his mind inside.

There is resistance, a whirl of fright and awful pain, but the Master's will is strong. In a breath he is past it, sinking into the Doctor's mind, now so full of thorns and barbs. Each thorn will have to be clipped from the stem; each barb soldered from the wire. The Master reaches through them, and as they pierce him, his heat melts them, burns them, leaving a path that is smooth and charred. The Doctor shudders against his body, whimpering like a child as he is cauterised, as the spikes in his mind are seared to stumps. 

At the heart of the Doctor's heart, he burns like a sun, hollowing a space in his own shape. A place deep inside, where no pain can reach. And there, gleaming in the black, the Master leaves himself. A seed of himself that will grow, that will become the vines that sink roots and spread. When the despair grows back, when the Doctor's sadness is a thorny weed overgrowing him, the vines will choke them dry.

"What have you done?" the Doctor gasps, wide-eyed.

"I have given you your Lord's love," the Master says, letting his hand drop from the Doctor's neck. "A medicine to cut down your despair, so you may worship with your full hearts."

"I am _ushaq_ ," the Doctor realises, as he feels the shape of the name inside him. A Time Lord has many names, and some are given, not chosen. 

"I gave your hidden self a name," the Master explains. "Your first reward." He drops his hand to the Doctor's cock, soft again from his distress. "Let me hear how _ushaq_ prays to his Lord."

The Master squeezes and strokes, and the Doctor gives a soft cry. His cock warms in the Master's grip, filling with blood, with arousal. The Doctor's head is bowed; his breath is hot against the Master's shoulder, soft puffs of air broken by silent consonants. _Ushaq_ prays in silence. But the Master holds him, and draws up his arousal, and at last the silence finds its sound. 

" _Effendim_ ," the Doctor whispers, over and over. " _Effendim_. _Effendim_." A prayer, a plea; he begs for release and for capture, to be burned clean and made pure, made in his Lord's image. The Master silences him with a kiss, swallowing his whispers, consuming his prayers as any god does an offering. Takes them, as all offerings must be taken, as he has taken the Doctor himself.

For he _is_ a god, of a dozen worlds. What is a god but a being of power? He is a Lord of Time and Space, and that is as near a god as any race but the Eternals can claim. And he will be the Doctor's god, his Lord, his Master. He is _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil_ , Possessor of the World, Offspring of the Sun, Son of the Stars. A name he chose for himself, beholding him to no family, no creator. A Master of masters. 

But it's the Doctor's moan of pleasure that drags him down from those heady posturings. His cock has swollen thick in the Master's hand, and his face is drawn in pleasure. The Master quickens his hand, and soon the Doctor shudders and wails. The Master catches the last stripes of come with his hand, and the rest are gleaming lines on the bare floor.

The Doctor is drugged with afterglow, eyes glazed and heavy. The Master brings his cupped palm to the Doctor's mouth, and the Doctor obediently laps at it, drinking up his own come. The Master murmurs approvingly, stroking his hair and back, and smiling warmly. When his palm and wrist are clean, he points to the floor and moves away.

"You may move your hands," he says, and the Doctor finally brings his hands forward again. He crouches on the floor, almost flat against it, and laps delicately at the lines of come, tongue moving like a cat's. The Master strokes his back, petting his collared neck, his bared arse. The Master soaks up his submission like a sponge. 

" _Ushaq_ ," the Master says, when the floor is gleaming with spit. "Come here."

The Doctor pushes up from the floor, and he has found his devotion. It is so clear in him, filling his eyes, his face, his mind. The Master has never seen anything as beautiful, not in a thousand nebulae. "This belongs to me," he declares, touching the Doctor's reddened lips. "And this," he says, holding his hand over the Doctor's eyes. "And this," he says, his fingers pressed to the Doctor's pulse. 

"And this. And this." He touches the Doctor all over, claiming every inch of skin, every pound of flesh, every single bone. "And this. And this." He presses the Doctor flat upon the floor and covers him with his body, his robes draping over the Doctor's bare skin, his mouth leaving kiss after kiss. The Doctor is full of light for him, his _ushaq_ showing his devotion, his surrender. 

And when he has finished, the Master settles upon the Doctor with a sigh, naked and erect beneath his robes. He looks down at the Doctor with narrowed eyes, and sees that it is good, that this is how it should be. 

" _Ushaq_ ," the Master says, drawing his focus. "Will you build my minaret for me? Will you build it in my honour, in my name, and glorify me?"

"I glorify you," the Doctor echoes, lost in his gaze. 

The Master smiles warmly. "Yes, you do. I will give you many servants to help you. I will give you the finest stone, the whitest marble. You will paint my name in jewels."

The Doctor seems not to breathe, and then takes a shuddering breath. " _Effendim_."

The Master strokes the Doctor's hair, dotingly. "Would you like me to feed you now?"

The Doctor pauses, as if unable to tell if he is hungry. Then he nods. "Please."

The Master crawls off him, and settles back in his cross-legged position next to the trays. He pats the floor, and the Doctor rises, crawls, and kneels there. He places his hands behind his back and bows his head, and it takes the Master's breath away. 

He feeds the Doctor a bit of food at a time, each piece taken from his cupped hand. The food slowly calms the Doctor, bringing him back from his deep submission, grounding him. As the light leaves him, he slumps, exhausted from his bliss. The Master continues to touch and soothe him, and draws him to lie down with his head in the Master's lap, and close his eyes.

The Master eats his own meal, then calls for the servants to return. The Master wakes the Doctor from his doze, and directs the servants to unhook his leash and take him. At the Doctor's confusion, the Master holds up his hand, stopping them, and rises to face him.

"You will be taken to the baths and cleaned," the Master explains. "Inside and out. When that is done, you will meet with the architect, and he will guide you through the plans. Be respectful; he is a man of learning, and you are the lowest slave."

"But I want to stay with you," the Doctor says, forlorn.

"You will be brought back to me in the evening, for dinner," the Master assures him. He places his hand at the centre of the Doctor's chest. "But I am always with you. I am in your soul." He drops his hand. "Serve me well, _ushaq_. Show me your devotion."

"Yes, _effendim_ ," the Doctor says, and bows his head. The Master waves his hand, and the servants guide the Doctor from the room.

§

The Master waits until the doors close, and then flops back on his bed. He spreads his limbs and lies quietly, his body simmering with power, with a low ache of arousal. His very blood feels sated, almost overfull. _Madness_. But such exquisite madness. Such joy.

The Doctor will return from his submissive state, and he will be clear-eyed again. The Master gave him the equivalent of shock-therapy, a strong, surgical strike to strip away the worst of the Doctor's deep depression, and a piece of himself to keep it at bay, like a bonfire in the freezing dark. A great gift, even greater than that of his name. But the Doctor was suitably appreciative. 

He hadn't intended for it to go this far. Not this quickly. But he was drunk on the Doctor's submission, and anyway, it needed to be done. And the power, oh, the power of it all. He writhes on the bed, his arousal sharpening.

He should have fucked the Doctor right there, hard and deep against the floor. He didn't. Not because the Doctor was vulnerable and confused, not out of any sense of personal restraint. He didn't because it's too soon, because the Doctor needs to earn the right to touch his _effendim_ , to pleasure him. It's important to give him goals, and that's a worthy one.

But the Master's lust is too great to be sated by his own hand. He needs skin against skin, he needs to make someone writhe and moan and preferably scream. Several someones. Fortunately, he knows just the thing.

One of the more hedonistic benefits of being an Emir is his very own harem. He had a harem on the Valiant, but never really enjoyed it properly. He'd chosen it more out of spite than any desire for satisfaction. But the harem of _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil_ is far beyond that of Harry Saxon's. 

Impatient, he rings for more servants. They hurry to his side, and dress him in peacock robes, variegated with blues, with the shapes of peacock feather eyes embroidered in silver and gold. Kohl is traced around his eyes. He is given matching slippers, and a white turban is wrapped around his head. The servants have barely tugged the last piece of fabric into place when the Master strides from the bedroom and out into the hall. He heads for the harem, and the servants trail behind.

His sudden arrival sends the harem slaves scurrying, abandoning their morning routines and ablutions. He waits at the entrance as they prepare to present themselves, then walks in with a measured step. He casts his eyes across them; his human pets, so eager to serve him, to impress him. He motions, and the slaves line up in two rows, facing each other. He chose each one from the finest traders of the Silk Road; slaves from northern Africa, from Europe, from southern Asia. They know of their worth, and are proud of it. 

The girls first. There are six of them, each dressed in silks and gauzes. He generously allows them to decide how they may make themselves most beautiful for him--a generosity he does not extend to the boys, who are too vain already. These girls are not the fragile, thin beauties of Saxon's London; they have wide hips and rounded breasts. He considers them against his hunger; he feels the softness of their skin, the weight of their breasts. He slides his hand beneath their skirts and feels their smooth, hairless cunts, shaven and oiled. His eyes narrow when he finds one cunt to be swollen and wet against his fingers; when he finds a second cunt to be the same, he smiles knowingly.

"Girls, girls," he says, in warm chastisement. "Have you been naughty without me again?"

One of the two, a slave from the far west, shows her blush more readily than her Ethiopian lover. Her skin is pale and freckled, and her red hair is copper in the lamplight as she bows her head. The Master goes to her lover, Makeda, and kisses her, tasting her lips and mouth.

"You taste of Melia's cunt," he says, and Makeda looks back at him with daring pride.

"We did not expect you back today," Makeda tells him, unapologetic.

"I have been distracted," the Master admits. "My new personal slave requires much of my attention."

Makeda nods, then looks past him, and the Master turns to follow her gaze. One of the boys, Eliel, is looking down at the floor, trying to hide his face. The Master goes to him and tilts up his chin. 

"Are you jealous, Eliel?" he asks.

Longing and jealousy flash across Eliel's delicate features. The boy was a gift from a passing slaver, and has developed a rather adorable crush on his Master. His body is slim but soft, with the last hints of a gangling adolescence. His brown hair hangs in curls, and his full lips are pressed thin. The other boys smirk at him arrogantly. The Master knows that if he kissed them, they would taste of each others' come.

"I told you to let them give you pleasure," the Master chides.

"But I only want you," Eliel says, forlorn. 

The Master is reminded of the Doctor's pleading to stay, and fights back a groan. He should have them both together, the two of them so desperate to please him. The thought of the Doctor in his harem is exquisite. The jealousy it would incite, the sheer need. The Doctor at the centre of a group of boys, hands everywhere upon him. Especially the boys with a taste for cruelty. There are two in his harem, but only one who has a talent for it. 

At the thought, he turns to Tanish, the boy in question. Tanish quickly tries to hide his smirk, rousing the Master's suspicion. Tanish's eyes flick between the Master and Eliel, and Eliel looks suddenly ashamed.

"Eliel, turn around," the Master commands.

Eliel hesitates, then turns. There are cane marks on his back, and the welts and bruising show they were made with far too much force. The Master frowns, and turns back to Tanish, who looks back at him with bluster. 

"He needed a lesson," Tanish declares. "He disobeyed your orders."

"Yes, he did," the Master says. "But he was mine to punish, not yours."

The bluster fades from Tanish's face, revealing his fear. He bows his head. "I am sorry, Emir. I only thought of you."

"You only thought of your own satisfaction," the Master corrects, sternly. "And while I like my slaves to be full of pleasure, it will not be at the expense of my own." He holds out his hand. "Eliel, bring me the cane he used on you." Eliel retrieves it, and presses it into the Master's hand. 

"I've been teaching my new slave humility," the Master continues, walking over to Tanish. "It seems he is not the only one in need of a lesson. _Hold him,_ " he orders, and the four other boys surround Tanish, holding him with his arms and legs wide. Another command and they strip the squirming boy bare, tugging off his vest and gauzy trousers. His soft cock is thick, and the Master caresses it with the tip of the cane. 

"How many strikes?" the Master asks Tanish.

Defiance flares in Tanish's eyes, and he presses his lips tight. 

"You refuse to answer?" the Master asks. "Then your punishment is doubled. Eliel, show the girls your back, and have them count."

The girls gather around Eliel's back, running their fingers along the many lines. They speak low amongst each other as Eliel blushes, then give their count. "Sixteen strikes," Makeda declares.

The Master looks coldly at Tanish. "Twice is not enough of a punishment for you. Bend him over," he orders the boys. 

Tanish is turned and bent in half, arse up and high. The Master beckons to Eliel, who comes close, and then whispers instructions to him. Eliel nods, then hurries to obey. Tanish tries to turn and look, but one of the boys grabs his head and forces it down. 

Eliel returns with oil and a wide ivory plug. The Master motions for one of the girls to help him, and she follows Eliel to stand behind Tanish. Eliel pours oil onto his fingers and pushes two into Tanish's arse, working the oil inside him until he is well-slicked. The girl hands Eliel the plug, and he places the rounded tip at Tanish's arse and pushes. Tanish groans as the plug is steadily worked deeper, whimpering as it stretches him painfully. 

"Your cunt is well-used," the Master sneers. "But I think this will find its limit."

Tanish sobs as the plug is at its widest, and sobs again as it passes that point and his body draws it deeper. Eliel taps at the base of the plug until it settles into place, held firm by Tanish's body. Tanish is trembling now, the muscles in his thighs and arse jumping under the strain. 

The Master hefts the cane, and Eliel and the girl step away. The girls favour Eliel, to spite the boys, and now they pull him close to them.

"Hold his genitals," the Master orders, and one of the boys grasps Tanish's roughly and pulls them up. The Master slides the tip of the cane between Tanish's legs, and drags the tip against his perineum. Tanish gives a fearful squeak, tensing.

 _Thwack_. The Master gives the first blow, and Tanish wails in pain. He struggles in the boys' arms and tries to close his legs, but four boys are stronger than one. 

Another blow to the same spot, and Tanish wails again. The third is a sharper blow, but to his inner thigh. Three red lines, and then the Master mirrors them on the other side. 

"Eight," the Master says, declaring the first quarter of the punishment over. Tanish is crying and trembling, knees weak so the boys must hold him up.

The next eight are to his arse, and here the plug serves its role. The blows are hardest here, where the flesh can take the most force, and the plug heightens the pain. There will be bruises to rival Eliel's, and to surpass them. Tanish is wailing, voice high and thin.

"Sixteen," the Master says. He lowers the cane to Tanish's thighs, and delivers four to the back of each. By the end, Tanish has stopped struggling, and his whimpers are gasps.

"Twenty-four," the Master announces. "Eight more. Are you ready?" When Tanish does not reply, he says again, sternly. "Are you ready?"

"Y-yes, Em--Emm..." Tanish stammers, and sobs.

The Master brings the tip of the cane between his legs again, and caresses the reddened welts already forming. "First, you must suffer pain," he quotes, and _strikes_.

Tanish wails in agony, and wails again and again as six strikes are delivered between his legs. The Master was merciful in sparing his balls from these strikes, but his mercy does not extend to the final two blows.

"Turn him around," he commands, and the boys turn Tanish between them. Tanish's face is flushed red, streaked with tears, crumpled with pain. He breathes in great gasps, sobbing like a child. 

"You think yourself above me," the Master accuses, eyes narrowed in anger. "You deem yourself worthy of deciding the punishment of my slaves. You are _not_. The first thirty blows were for the harm you did to Eliel. The final two are for the harm you did to your Emir."

He readies the cane. "Hold up his cock. Leave his balls exposed," he orders The boys obey, and Tanish trembles in fear.

The blow is cruel and strong, and Tanish _screams_. The cane leaves a red welt across his balls.

"And now his cock," the Master commands. His is the thickest of all the boys, and Tanish is too proud of it. He will be less proud after this.

The Master delivers the final blow, and the boys holding Tanish wince in sympathy. Tanish cannot even scream, the pain is so complete. His whole body shudders, his mouth gaping, nostrils flared wide. His legs give way, and he hangs limp from the boys' arms.

Satisfied, the Master drags the cane against his palm, and then hands it back to Eliel. Eliel clutches it, eyes wide. He looks to the Master in awe, full of devotion and a little fright. The perfect mix.

"Gag him, and hang him by his wrists," the Master commands. The boys hurry to obey, and Tanish's bound wrists are hooked to a high peg in the wall. It forces him to stand up on his toes, to ease the pull on his arms. A final punishment that will end when the Master has finished here. That will be long enough to teach him suffering, but not enough to cause any harm.

The Master leaves Tanish to hang, and goes to the main bedroom, the other slaves following behind. He feels purged of his tension, but that has only brought his need to the fore. It is time to indulge in more sensual pleasures of the flesh.

The main room is large and airy, with high, coloured windows. Sheer fabrics over the glass provide extra privacy. Tiled designs decorate the walls and ceilings. The floor is covered with beautiful rugs and piles of pillows, and a long, low sofa lines three walls. 

"You three," he says, pointing to Makeda, Eliel, and Melia, "come with me to the bed. The rest of you will provide our entertainment."

The eight boys and girls prepare to play music and to dance, and the Master stops at the end of the bed. He spreads his arms, and the three slaves begin to strip him. Eliel's hands are especially eager at his robes, hungry for his Emir's body after Tanish was so thoroughly punished on his behalf. Melia is the meekest, kneeling to remove his slippers, her head bowed and her hands against his feet in a caress. Makeda looks him in the eye as she unwinds his turban, and gathers the clothes from the others to set them aside. 

The Master crawls onto the bed, and sprawls back against the pillows, sighing as he rubs against luxurious silk. He spreads his arms and closes his eyes, and relaxes. He hears the slide of cloth against skin as his slaves strip bare; moments later, the bed shifts around him as the three position themselves along his body. They begin with caresses, rubbing him with special oils and perfumes, massaging the tension from his limbs. They plant trails of kisses on his skin, sweet and tender. Soft hands stroke from his belly to his cock, and another hand slips between his legs to massage his balls, his perineum. Pleasing music fills the air, and he hears the jangle of finger cymbals as the dancers begin their performance.

He opens his eyes, and draws Melia down into a kiss. Such a shy thing, but she kisses sweetly and with devotion. When she draws back, he sees the love in her eyes. She is only shy because to her he is her Lord, and she is but the dust beneath his feet. He smiles warmly at her, and strokes at her hair. Makeda rubs at her back in easy circles, and Melia begins to relax.

The Master drags his hand down her body, and cups her breast, thumbing at her nipple. "Melia," he says, "would you like to please me?"

Melia bites at her lip, then smiles. "Yes, my Emir."

"Good girl," the Master says. He leans back, and Melia bows, bringing her mouth to his cock.

"I would also like to please you," Eliel insists, with a gleam in his eye. Such a brazen boy. He leans closer, and the Master reaches up to touch his mouth. Eliel catches his thumb between his lips, and his cheeks hollow. It's a sight that the Master is unable to resist. He pulls his thumb free, and drags his hand through Eliel's hair, and pulls him down to join Melia. Their tongues are eager and pleasantly rough, moving up and down his shaft. Wet lips cling as they lightly suck, sloppy with spit. The Master strokes his fingers through their hair, encouraging.

He looks up to see Makeda watching, her eyes dark with arousal. "And you?" he asks.

Makeda smiles. "I would like to be pleased."

The Master laughs. "How very selfish of you."

Before he can give her an order, Makeda leans in and kisses him, her mouth firm against his, her hand tight at his hair. She kisses him as if he is the slave. She is the only one who can take such liberties, and knows it. 

Makeda breaks the kiss, only to grab the pillows from behind the Master's back and toss all but one away. She pushes the Master down and pins him with forceful kisses. The Master lets her take him, and cups her heavy breasts in his hands, squeezing and stroking. He caresses her belly, soft over hard muscle, and lets his hand slide down between her legs. Her cunt is hot against his fingers, and he slides through her folds to press at her clitoris. Makeda moans against his mouth and gives a low chuckle. 

"Is that what you want, my Emir?" she asks, slyly. And without waiting for his reply, she rises, stretching her arms high, thrusting out her chest proudly. And then in a smooth motion, she sinks down again, turning and straddling him; she pushes Melia and Eliel from his cock and takes it for herself, and lowers her cunt to the Master's mouth. 

The Master groans against her cunt as she takes his cock into her mouth, and sucks it deep. He slides his tongue inside her and sucks at her folds, tasting the pleasant bitterness of her, the musk of her flesh. She is slippery and so wet, so swollen. But when his cock is sucked into her throat, he gasps against her, groans in ecstasy. He paws at her arse, kneading her cheeks, and bucks up to drive himself deeper.

The Master would be happy to stay this way, lapping at her cunt as she swallows around his cock, but Eliel's jealousy interrupts them. He pushes Makeda from the Master's cock and takes it back, and immediately takes it deep, sliding down until his lips press against the Master's groin. Her cunt presses hard against his mouth, and the change in position brings her clitoris to his lips; he sucks at it and Makeda grinds against him, groaning and then shuddering. She is even wetter when she comes, the scent of her heady and dizzyingly rich. 

Makeda rolls off the Master, temporarily satisfied, and the Master pushes himself up. 

"Greedy boy," the Master murmurs. He grabs Eliel by his hair and drags him up, Eliel's mouth sliding wetly off his cock. Eliel's own cock is so full, arched high. The Master sees this, and narrows his eyes. "Have you been denying yourself?"

Eliel nods, eyes wide with desire. "I saved myself for you," he breathes.

"Such a romantic," the Master says. "I should punish you for disobeying my orders."

"Punish me?" Eliel asks, sultry.

The Master smoulders at him. "Makeda, hold him," he commands.

Makeda rises from her laze and grabs Eliel, who struggles and tries to slip free. But Makeda is skilled and does not let him go; she forces him onto all fours, and hooks her arms between his arms and his neck, forcing his head down. Eliel squirms, but her hold on him is strong. Makeda nods to the Master to show that she is ready, and the Master rises to his knees.

"Melia, my sweet," he says. "Get Eliel's cane from the floor."

Melia bows her head, and hurries to retrieve the cane. She brings it back to the bed and presents it to the Master, but he motions for her to keep it.

"You will give Eliel his punishment," he explains.

Melia looks uncertain. "But I've never..."

The Master smiles dotingly. "I will help you. Come closer." He guides her to kneel beside him, behind Eliel, whose arse is pushed out as he squirms. She one of his more recent acquisitions, and still has much to learn. 

"First, without the cane," he instructs. He raises his hand, stretched flat with a slight cup, and swings, giving Eliel a sharp smack. Eliel yelps, and stills his squirming. "Now you," he tells her.

Melia raises her hand in imitation, and is about to swing when the Master stops her.

"Do _not_ hold back," he warns.

Melia nods, and her mouth purses with concentration. She raises her arm again, and this time delivers the blow. It is not as strong as the Master's, but it is enough. 

"Again," the Master orders. "Keep at steady pace, and do not stop until I say."

Melia swings, and with each slap grows bolder. Eliel whines, and struggles in vain to escape Makeda's grip. He wanted his Master's hand, but is denied that pleasure.

He does not keep count, but when Eliel's arse is mottled with bright red, the Master places his hand on Melia's shoulder. "Enough," he says, and she lowers her arm. Her cheeks are flushed, and there is a new spark in her eyes 

The Master pauses to admire her work, caressing Eliel's heated arse. He presses his fingers into the sensitive skin, and Eliel hisses.

"Pick up the cane," the Master tells her, and Melia holds it up, looking to him for guidance. He adjusts her grip and her stance. "Like this," he says, swinging her arm slowly until the cane presses against the backs of Eliel's thighs. "One swing, now."

Melia pulls back her arm, and gives a sharp swing. It lands crookedly, but leaves a satisfying stripe of reddened flesh. Eliel whines pathetically.

"Straighter. Again."

Melia swings, and crosses her first blow with a second, making an X across Eliel's thighs. She smiles, then grins, and her third strike is straight and true. It is high, and catches the back of Eliel's balls --just enough, and Eliel cries out in pain.

The Master motions for her to lower her arm. "That's enough for now," he says. She looks worried, perhaps thinking she has not done well, and to assuage her he gives her a kiss. When he pulls back, she is smiling again. 

He smiles down at her, and cups her breast. Bends down to suck at it, to mouth the firm, pale skin and the dark pink nipple. He reaches between her legs and pinches her clitoris, and Melia gives a breathy moan and the cane falls from her hand. 

Still fingering her, he turns his head to Makeda. "Release him," he orders.

Makeda releases her hold, and Eliel pulls free, shuffling back. His eyes shine with pain, and he glares at all three of them. His cock has softened from his punishment, and his posture speaks of his chastisement. 

The Master straightens, and pulls his fingers free. They are wet from Melia's cunt, and he sucks them clean. She is sweeter than her lover. He dips his fingers back inside her, pressing his fingers to the walls of her cunt, moving them in a slow circle to wet them before pulling free again. Hand held out, he crawls to the sulking Eliel. The Master reaches out, and Eliel pulls back slightly, then stills. The Master brings his hand to Eliel's mouth, and traces his lips until they gleam. 

"Lick them," the Master orders, softly.

Eliel glares stubbornly, but reflexively licks. He turns his face away, and the Master catches his chin and turns his face back. He leans in and kisses Eliel, laving his lips clean, pressing his tongue inside to share the taste. Eliel softens against him, kissing back, his anger pushed away by his need.

"Good boy," the Master murmurs. He reaches down and takes Eliel's soft cock in hand, and strokes it sweetly. Eliel closes his eyes and gives a whisper of a moan, leaning his head towards his Master. The Master strokes him until he is once again hard, his cock full and heavy.

"I expect you to thank Melia for giving you your punishment," the Master says. 

Eliel frowns, and looks up pouting. "But Emir..."

The Master gives him a stern look. "You will be grateful," he warns, and squeezes Eliel's cock. "I gave you this for her."

Eliel start to protest, and then bows his head in obedience. The Master rewards him with another squeeze, then releases him. He places his hand on Eliel's back and urges him towards the waiting Melia.

"Thank her," the Master commands, and Eliel moves towards her. 

At first, Melia does not meet his eyes. She is perhaps ashamed of giving him pain, or uncertain of his touch. And Eliel is clumsy against her as they lie down on the bed, still overcoming his own resistance. But then simple mechanics takes over, and Eliel holds her leg to his side as he sinks inside her. 

The Master gives an approving sigh, and allows them to find their rhythm on their own. Though they have served him together before, they are still new to each other's bodies, and must learn. But he is not content to merely watch, and soon crawls to their side to touch them. He rests a hand on the small of Eliel's back, caressing there, and Eliel's thrusts become smoother, more certain. He touches Melia's cheek, and then her breast, and she raises her eyes to Eliel, no longer afraid.

The Master touches them as they fuck, feeling the join of them, teasing and rubbing. He breaks their rhythm but they find it again, and welcome his explorations. But as Eliel interrupted before, now Makeda draws him from them with her kisses.

"I want to fuck you," Makeda says, low with want.

The Master bites back a groan. "Do you now?"

Makeda wraps her hand around his cock and squeezes, and the Master shuts his eyes against the pleasure. "Get your harness," he hisses.

Makeda gives one last squeeze, and then leaves the bed. The Master turns back to the rutting couple, and touches himself idly as he watches them. Eliel's thrusts are rougher now, crude with the strength of his arousal, and it's no surprise when he drives deep and comes. His body arches with tension, and his mouth gapes wide, and he holds himself inside Melia with little thrusts. Melia cries out softly, holding to him, and then holding him as he slumps against her, panting.

When Eliel rolls off her, and onto his back, the Master shifts close and brings his hand between her legs. He scoops Eliel's come from her cunt and holds his fingers out for Eliel to lick clean. Eliel hesitates only briefly before bowing his head over the Master's hand, and lapping it with his tongue. The Master waits until he's finished all of it, then dips his fingers back into Melia for more. This second scoopful he offers to Melia herself, and she eagerly sucks at each finger.

Makeda returns with her harness in hand, but when she begins to fasten it around herself, the Master stops her. "No," he says, and gestures to Melia's spread legs. "Clean her out."

Makeda casually drops the harness on the bed and climbs up, smiling as she crawls over her lover. She kisses Melia, sweet and then hungry, before moving to obey. She straddles Melia's body, presenting Melia with her own cunt to lick as she laps up Eliel's come. The Master allows the two of them their pleasure, and beckons to Eliel. 

When Eliel is on all fours over his lap, the Master begins slicking oil into Eliel's arse. Eliel gives a happy sigh, pleased that his Master is finally giving him his full attention. He rocks shallowly against the Master's hand, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Pleased with yourself?" the Master asks, mildly.

Eliel's response is to clench around his fingers, to let his head hang down and give a low moan. "Will you fuck me now?" he asks, lazily hopeful.

The Master spreads his fingers wide, twists them around. Brings them together and hooks them, rubbing his knuckles against Eliel's insides. Although the boy has just come, it does make him give such pretty whimpers.

"Do you think you've been punished enough for your crimes?" the Master asks 

Eliel seems to drag himself back to his senses. "I have been well-punished, my Emir," he slurs. His expression tries for contrite, but fails. 

"You take too well to your _punishment_ ," the Master says, knowing. "I expect Tanish was provoked."

A smirk flashes across Eliel's face, but he quickly suppresses it. "Perhaps, my Emir," he admits.

"You refused him," the Master guesses. "More than once?"

"Yes," Eliel says, softer now. "More than once. But I would not..."

"You do no honour to me when you disobey my orders," the Master says, sternly. "I spoil you too much. Do not make me regret that." His fingers had stilled, and he begins to move them again. "You must not refuse those who want you. It does not make you any less mine, for they are mine, and their touch is mine. To refuse them is to refuse your Emir."

For the first time, Eliel looks honestly chastened. "I am sorry. Please do not be angry!"

The Master presses the back of his free hand to Eliel's cheek. "This matter is not finished. But you are forgiven."

Eliel nuzzles against his hand, showing his gratitude. Then he rises up on his knees, brazen yet shy, and climbs onto the Master's lap. Silent, he straddles the Master's cock, then slowly sinks down, clinging to the Master as it fills him. The Master touches him only lightly, offering no help or guidance. He merely appreciates, savours the frown of Eliel's forehead, the parting of his lips. The clench and release around his cock, and Eliel's soft groans of effort.

When Eliel's thighs are flush against him, the Master strokes idly down his back, soothing the boy as he is stretched; the Master's cock is thick, and Eliel's restraint has made him tight. The Master kisses Eliel's shoulder, his neck, light presses of his lips to oiled skin. Eliel's hands tighten on his arms as Eliel begins to fuck himself on his Master's cock, a slow rise almost off, and then the long slide down again.

"Good boy," the Master murmurs, and Eliel gasps and tightens around him. "Fuck yourself. Show me."

" _Emir_ ," Eliel breathes, reverent, and meets the Master's gaze with open love. His muscles flex beneath the Master's touch as he rises and falls "Will you fuck me?" he pleads, sweetly. "Please, my Emir. _Please_ fuck me. I am empty without you."

As he begs, his face is full of longing and need, and for a moment the Master sees the Doctor in his place, the Doctor begging, the Doctor pleading. The Doctor fucking himself and yet so desperate to be _fucked_ , to be taken and _ridden_. Caught off-guard, the Master gives a breathy groan, grabs at Eliel and shoves him down onto the bed. His fingers curl against Eliel's arms as he pins him down, seeing the Doctor in Eliel's surprise, in his welcoming. The Master hisses through bared teeth, hauling Eliel's leg high against his waist and thrusting hard.

" _Yes_ ," Eliel groans, arching his neck, and the Master mouths at it, nips, just holding back from biting. Eliel is only a human, only a boy. Not the Doctor, never the Doctor, but their submission to him is so much the same. It could be the Doctor writhing beneath him, eyes dark with kohl, lips and cheeks flushed, gangly limbs wrapped around him. The bangles around Eliel's wrists and ankles jangle, and the Master decides that the Doctor must be decorated this way, with gold and jewels and harem clothes. The vision of it is as clear in his mind as a prophecy. 

As if possessed, the Master wrenches himself from Eliel, only to grab the boy and flip him onto his front, drag him up onto his hands and knees. The scars on Eliel's back are the scars on the Doctor's back. The Master drags his mouth against their banquet, his mind full of images: of the Doctor crawling for him, of the Doctor senseless in the dirt, of the Doctor bloodied by his whip. The Master covers Eliel with his body and fucks him in sharp, angry thrusts, angry that Eliel is not the Doctor, angry that he denies himself what he truly craves.

And suddenly it's not enough. One boy, one human, is not nearly enough. Although his cock is achingly hard, he pulls out of Eliel again and forces the boy onto his back again, flat beneath him. He rears up and turns to the girls, buried in each other's cunts, their mingled scents strong and rich. Without warning he drags Makeda away, and in her surprise she does not resist him. And then he has all three of them, his three wanton slaves reeking of sex, naked and oiled, with pink cunts and cocks and breasts, and he _feasts_ on them, rubbing himself against their bodies, mouthing from breast to breast, from thigh to thigh. He wallows in flesh, sucking and biting, slapping and rubbing, thrusting his fingers inside them. He makes himself drunk on sensation, never full, only greedy for more and more.

So much, and yet it's not enough, could never be enough. He could feast on all of his harem at once, and a dozen humans would not sate him, could not equal one Doctor. He snarls in frustration and crouches over Melia.

"The harness," he growls. "Put it on. _Now._ "

Melia's eyes widen, and she scurries to obey. Her hands tremble as she buckles the leather straps around herself. The Master ignores her struggles and grabs Makeda, grabs her by the neck and turns her over and fucks her from behind. But Makeda is no submissive, no Eliel. She pushes back against him, takes his violent thrusts and rides them. She arches and growls and laughs, urging him on, deeper, harder. And the Master stares at her dark, glistening skin and sees the Doctor's, pale despite the sun, his light freckles darkened, his wild hair long against his neck. He sees the Doctor laughing and groaning, the Doctor fucking him back with a fervour that matches his own The Doctor with his collar tight around his neck, and the leash wound tight, biting into the Master's hand. His Doctor, his Doctor, full of joy for _him_ , full of desire and need and strength for _him_ , and finally that is enough, finally that image drags the climax from him. The Master gives a wretched sob as he comes, his whole body _yearning_ for that vision, for that to be.

When his senses have returned, the Master drags himself off of Makeda and collapses back against the pillows. He rests his forearm over his eyes, blocking out the world, not sure if he wants to cling to that final image or blind himself to it. The decision is made for him by the soft lap of a tongue on his cock, and he looks down to see Eliel obediently licking him clean. A greedy boy, a selfish boy, but such a natural slave. The Master takes a deep breath, releases it, and feels his tension ease. 

He pets lightly at Eliel's head, and looks up to see Melia wearing the harness, looking at him in expectation and slight concern. He beckons for her to come close, and she crawls to his side. The Master wraps his hand around the ivory cock and strokes it, smearing the oil on it. 

"Eliel," the Master says, softly. "Enough."

Eliel raises up, his head still obediently bowed. 

"Clean my come from Makeda. Make her ready for Melia's cock."

Eliel nods, and turns around to bow between Makeda's thighs. Makeda eagerly welcomes his tongue, urging him on with a hand curled in his hair. She is greedy, as he is greedy, as all his slaves are greedy. Like their Master, they can never truly be sated, and that is why he chose them.

He releases Melia's cock and pulls her down for a long, sloppy kiss. She relaxes against him, rutting a little in her eagerness. She is so soft, and still naive. There is a part of him, a very, very old part of him, that remembers being that way. 

"Push Eliel away," he tells her, "and take what is yours."

Melia meets his gaze, and beneath her shyness and gentleness he sees that spark, that strength that she must nurture and grow. She straightens her back, her shoulders and crawls to where Eliel laps hungrily at Makeda's cunt. With a firm hand, she takes him by the shoulder and guides him away. With a new confidence, she guides Makeda onto all fours, and slides slick fingers into Makeda's arse. And then with a natural grace, she positions her cock and thrusts inside.

Eliel returns to his side, and curls up beside him. Together they watch as Melia steadily fucks Makeda, curled over her back, hips moving in an easy rhythm. Melia's hands wander along Makeda's body, squeezing her breasts, toying with her cunt and clitoris, and steadying against her hips. She coaxes soft moans and gasps from her lover, gives pleasure and is given pleasure.

Suddenly the two of them together seems a private thing, although they perform before a full audience. The Master taps Eliel's arm and motions for him to follow as he leaves the bed. Melia and Makeda are in their own world, so wrapped up in each other than they seem not to notice their departure, and the Master is content to leave them this way.

Tanish is still hanging against the wall. At the Master's order, two servants take him down and lay him at the Master's feet. 

The Master turns to Eliel. "As of now, Tanish is your responsibility," he says, brooking no argument. "You will care for him and help him heal. You will be kind to him. And when he has healed, you will neither refuse him nor be refused by him. Do you understand?"

Eliel briefly pouts, then sobers as he realises how serious the Master is. "I do, Emir."

"Good," the Master nods, then smirks. "I'm sure he will even hurt you again, if you beg him nicely."

Eliel blushes and looks away, his complicity exposed. 

The Master's smile softens. "He has learned his lesson," he explains. "Now it is time for you to learn yours." He kisses Eliel's head, and briefly cups his cheek.

The Master leaves the harem, feeling purged but not sated. There is a famine in him that has only one cure, but the Doctor is a fruit that must be ripened before he is picked. Until that time, until the Doctor has completed his education, the Master must make do, and must be patient. 

But slaves can only slake one kind of thirst. For the other, he heads for the library. There is a book of poems that he must read.

§

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ushaq: a boy, a slave: http://dsal1.uchicago.edu/cgi-bin/philologic/search3advanced?dbname=steingass&query=ushaq&matchtype=exact&display=utf8


	8. Chapter 8

There is a poem he thinks of, as he paints fine charcoal lines on the wall. _Of lapis lazuli_ , for that will be the colour of the Master's robes. It is a holy color, of eternity, of the heavens. Even now, Irish monks use it to delicately paint their illuminations; in centuries past, it was prized by the Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Babylonians. 

_A sea-gull of lapis lazuli, a scarab of the sea with wings spread, curling its coral feet._

The spread of wings. There will be blue here, too, on the feathers of the _Simurgh_. The Doctor paints the curve of its beak, its head raised to the Master in yearning--a yearning the Doctor understands all too well himself. Rare vermillion will edge its wings, along with silver and gold. The Simurgh is the giver of life and of power, and the Doctor depicts it here granting that power to the Master, granting divinity. For he has built the minaret high for his _effendim_ , and atop it a shrine, a hall of worship and ceremony.

The Doctor calculates the quantity of the pigments he will need, but he does not calculate the cost. For the Master's shrine, only the finest materials will do: for stone, the whitest marble; for paints, the most brilliant hues. The pyrite-flecked ultramarine of the lapis lazuli; the copper-green of malachite; the toxic shine of yellow orpiment. The back wall of the shrine will be a great mural, a symbol of the Master's eminence, of the Doctor's devotion.

The Doctor does not work alone; the builders are long gone now, but the artisans took their place, working with steady determination that rivals the Doctor's own. Together they must finish their holy task, for soon it will be Mehregan, the celebration of the divinity of covenant, and the anniversary of the Master's rule over his people. On that day, the Master will seal the covenant with his people, will be worshipped as Mithra was worshipped. It will be the day of harvest, of celebration, of union. 

_Union_. The word is silent on his tongue, but so loud in his thoughts For it is union he craves, and union he seeks. To no longer be kept apart from his _effendim_ , for his penitence to end. It will come soon, he knows it will, but the wait has been hard. It was only his task that saved him, the gift of work to bend himself to, that allowed him to endure.

The Doctor has lived history. He has changed it, broken and healed it. But he has never been a part of it. Never built history, inch by inch, stone by stone. This before him is history, this under and around him. Before the Master's rule, this shrine would have been a blasphemy. But the memory of the old gods never truly faded from this corner province, and the religion of Muhammad never settled with them, leaving them open for a new tradition, a new god. Their Mithra reborn, their descended god sent to guide the world. Mehregan will be the day of their initiation, and they will feel such joy that he almost envies them.

Yet even now, he feels at peace. The despair that had so hollowed him is gone now, and he gives thanks for such a gift. His work is the least he can give in return for such an unexpected salvation, from such an unlikely source. 

And so he works, and every brushstroke is both balm and repayment. The chamber is not large, but it is round and with a high, airy dome. Not an inch will be left bare when he is done, and the white marble will be bright and shining with colour. The high dome, as yet untouched, will be fretted with gold and silver, the lights of the sun, the moon, the stars. Along the base of the dome, geometric patterns of fractal complexity, based on block transfer mathematics. And beneath, at the tops of the walls, the Master's name punctuating a long path of Persian script: a poem of deep meaning for himself, that will act as an instruction to all who enter this place.

While those yet exist only in his thoughts and sketches, the walls themselves are far from empty. Beneath where the line of script will be is the light tracery of vines, a dense labyrinth growing out from tall, twining trees. The vines spread wide, curling and branching, the spaces between them filled with delicate leaves and blooming flowers, and the plumage of songbirds. When they are painted and done, they will be a mass of emerald, broken by ruby and sapphire, by amethyst and opal, the colours of a wealth of gemstones ground to pigment.

For so long, he has dreamed of these vines. They are not of the Master's lush gardens, not grown from the rich soil of the earth. The Doctor has nurtured those seedlings, helped them to sprout and grow inside and through him, finding the empty places in him and filling them. He only sees them in his mind, in his sleep. His dreams are often restless and searching, only finding peace when the green vines snake through him, wrap around him, inside him, binding his limbs, his chest, his thoughts. Pulling tight, but without the bite of rope or leather. In the dreams, he feels held: held safe, held together after being broken for so long. The compression of his thoughts bringing the fractured pieces of himself back together, helping him to heal. 

Although they are only apparent in dreams, the vines are always present, multiplying and growing ever longer. Their roots are deep in him, beyond removal. As his fractures seal from their pressure, the vines within become a part of him, the new stanchions of his mind. His gratitude is for this is too great for words, for admission, and so he pours it out through his work, pours it into his art, his prayers. At last he begins to truly understand his childhood mentor, the hermit monk who became K’Anpo and Cho-Je. To understand why humans and so many other species worship, or dedicate their lives to the service of a great ideal. A thousand years of wandering brought experience and knowledge, but so much loss, so much loneliness. In his long rebellion against the Time Lords, he came to reject belonging itself, and the loss nearly destroyed him. A thousand years, and he never grew wise.

He does not believe in gods, but he has been humbled enough to bow. And as the hermit monk once strove to teach him, humility is the beginning of wisdom. 

The Doctor sets down his brush. The long, curving tailfeathers of the Simurgh are now painted in hair-thin lines on the wall, and he is satisfied with their grace. He turns away to retrieve his sheaves of notes and sketches. The afternoon sun casts a warm beam through the doorway, and he settles on the floor within the stretching light. 

On a clean sheet of paper, he begins to plan the border of words. The poem will be a line of arabesques, Persian calligraphy in a parade of shapes. He knows the poem by heart, but writes it again, each silent word a bead of his mind's _misbaha_. It begins with a declaration of the Master's name, and of the holy status he will soon bear: _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil. O stars' descendant, O Mithra reborn. Behold him that holds the world!_

The Doctor pauses to dip the nib of his quill for fresh, black ink. This first line will be set opposing the grand mural, above the entrance to the shrine. He considers the shape the words will take. It must be a symbol of divinity, of power and strength. Perhaps the farahavar, the divine sun-eagle The image is rooted in this place, used of old by the Zoroastrians, yet that makes it too common for what the Master intends. Or the sacred lotus blossom, which Mithra stands upon--yet purity seems too cool a symbol for the Master. To the Doctor, the Master is so often fire--and so a swollen flame would be fitting, bright and burning to all who come near. But while there is glory in that, it is impersonal, and keeps all at bay. The ink dries on his quill as he ponders.

A sound makes him start, and draws him from his dissatisfaction. It comes again, and he smiles. It is the cry of the Master's Mirza, being taken for her afternoon walk. The cheetah's cry is a chirping yelp, and he peers through the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and her Master. But the cry is from far away, and already begins to taper off. 

He remembers how she looked last night. The way she sat, proud and lean, at her Master's feet. Almost without thinking, he dips his quill anew and begins to draw: the graceful line of her back, the sharp slant of her eye. At once he knows that he has found his symbol. And as he draws the words into her shape, he remembers.

As with every evening, he was taken from the minaret by the guards, and brought to the palace baths to be made pleasing. The dust and dirt were washed from his skin and hair, and the familiar oils and perfumes applied. With a fresh loincloth fitted to his waist, and no leash upon his collar, he was brought, on schedule, to the Master's room, and the doors closed behind him 

As with every evening, the Master did not acknowledge his entrance. The Doctor sank in a slow glide to his knees, and then to the floor, bowing so deeply his forehead rested there. And in that position he waited, holding still but calm, waited for the soft rasp of paws upon the rugs. _Mirza_. He felt her whiskers as she sniffed him, and kept still, kept down. She is protective of her Master, and the Doctor must ever prove his submission before she allows him to rise. The memory of sharp claws and sharper teeth is not one he wants to experience anew.

But Mirza has grown fond of him. Satisfied with his scent, she gave a loud _churr_ and butted against him, gliding along his bare skin. Her tail flicked at his side, almost wrapped around him as she circled once, then fell away. On her return, she lapped at his cheek with a wide, rough tongue, churred and rubbed until he laughed, tickled, and rose.

"Hello, Mirza," he said, petting her in long strokes, then scratching behind her jaw, and her ears. She churred even louder, then suddenly shook herself, and trotted back to the Master, swishing her tail.

He raised his eyes, and Master looked back. " _Effendim_ ," the Doctor greeted, and bowed his head.

"Ushaq," the Master replied, curtly.

The word is the Doctor's permission. On cue he crawled forward, and came to rest at the foot of the Master's seat, head still bowed. A pause, and then the tang of oiled leather wafted towards him. The Master's hand reached under, and his leash was hooked, tugged. The Doctor let the pull of it raise his head. 

The Master's cold expression softened, warmed. " _Ushaq_ ," he said, and this time it was glad.

And as with every evening, the Doctor smiled up at him, happy that he was where he belonged. " _Effendim_ ," he said, and this time it was a contented sigh, full of gratitude. He knows that he must never take this grace for granted, must always earn the right to serve, and to be kept. The Master petted him, the way the Doctor petted Mirza, and the Doctor would have purred if he could. 

A knock, and servants entered, bearing trays of food and wine. They were placed on the table beside the Master's seat, and the servants quickly left. 

Mirza stood, then circled around them, brushing against the Doctor in long strokes. He reached out his hand and she rubbed her cheek against it, welcoming the scratch of his nails. 

"Does my princess want her meat?" the Master said, reaching out to dangle a bloody strip of lamb. 

Mirza audibly inhaled, then swiftly turned and snapped the meat from the Master's fingers. Her greed made her sloppy, and the strip fell; she bowed her head to the floor, gobbling it back. When she'd swallowed it up, she rose up and perched her front paws on the Master's knees, sniffed his fingers and lapped hungrily at them. 

The Master laughed, and pushed her down. "Patience," he said, and reached for another strip. Mirza gave a playful, warning growl, and rose up again, but did not leap for the bowl herself. She stared intently instead, breathing noisily and licking blood from the fur around her mouth. Only when she was given another strip, and another, did she back down.

"Good girl," the Master said, warmly. 

He petted her as she chomped at the lamb, piece after piece until the bowl held only a puddle of blood. The Master pushed her down, and placed the bowl on the floor for her to lap clean. Satisfied, she walked a distance away, then settled down to wash, leaving the Doctor and the Master to their own dinner.

The Doctor's stomach rumbled with hunger, but still the Master ignored him. Instead, the Master tore pieces of the warm, soft flatbread and pinched bits of meat from its rich sauce, satisfying himself first. The Doctor gave a quiet, plaintive sound, his mouth wet with hunger, but all the Master did was tighten the pull of his leash. The Doctor closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat.

It was another tug of his leash that roused him, a familiar, sharp pull. On command, he rose, head bowed, and perched as Mirza perched. Fingers pressed under his chin, and he raised his face to the Master. The Master took a mouthful of wine, and pressed his mouth to the Doctor's. The Doctor gave a soft moan as the kiss granted him dribbles of wine, and the touch of the Master's lips. He is only ever kissed this way now, and has begun to imagine that kisses only ever tasted of wine.

Just as Mirza was fed, he was fed bites of food from the Master's fingers, and petted as he chewed. Although at the minaret, hundreds of workers followed his instruction, here he was restored to his proper place, equal to and lower than the Master's cat. This was his punishment, and only obedience will ever earn him more. And yet throughout his meal, he received the Master's wine-drenched kisses, and his hearts were lightened.

After eating, he was allowed to rest his head on the Master's lap for a while, the Master lightly stroking his hair. This was a time of relaxation after their busy days, and the Doctor hungered for these small touches the way Mirza hungered for meat. He is given so little, and all day and night he starves for it. Oh, to rub himself against the Master, as Mirza does. To be stroked and brushed and welcomed, even into the Master's bed. 

To curl against the Master instead of the cold floor! He has spent nights pained with jealousy that she has that right, and he does not. To sleep where she will. When she does not choose the bed, she often chooses the garden, to lie amongst the plants. But perhaps she knows of his longing, for some nights she chooses him, and her soft, living warmth is a balm to his dreams 

The Master stirred, and pushed the Doctor from his lap. "Place the trays outside the door. Then come dress me for bed," he ordered, and let the leash fall.

The Doctor bowed his head in acknowledgement, and obeyed. He gave the trays to the guards, then found the Master at his wardrobe.

"These tonight," the Master decided, selecting a set of loose, silk robes. He held out his arms, and the Doctor began to strip his clothes, pausing to put away each item, and set aside his underthings to be washed by the servants. He wrapped the silk robes around the Master's body, and fastened them closed. And finally, he reached up to carefully unwrap the long silk strip of the Master's turban, removing each pin and decoration to a small gilt box. When the Master's head was bare, the Doctor wound the silk around a wooden spool, then placed it next to the box. The Master's hair was in disarray, so the Doctor took a comb and patiently brushed it.

The Master posed at his mirror, inspecting the Doctor's work. "Good," he said, satisfied. He settled on the edge of his bed, then gestured for the Doctor to kneel before him. With the day's work complete, now was the time for the most important part of the Doctor's day. He must prove himself, and earn his night's rest. He felt the words building within him, gathering in his throat.

The Master took up the Doctor's leash again, and wrapped it thrice around his arm. He guided the Doctor to meet his eyes, and held his gaze. "Ushaq," he said, fondly. "You may speak now. Tell me what you were most grateful for today."

"Thank you, _effendim_ ," the Doctor said. "But first, may I make a request?"

The Master tilted his head. "You may ask," he replied, curious. 

"Thank you," the Doctor said again, bowing his head. He raised his face again, and spoke. "I ask permission, for tonight, to give my gratitude and my professions together."

The Master's gaze hardened. "You seek to deny me? Half of your words will not be enough to earn you your sleep."

"No, _effendim_! I would never deny you," the Doctor insisted, baring his honesty on his face and in his voice. "I ask only because they must be spoken in the same breath. I cannot find a separation."

The Master's eyes searched his face, and seemed to find satisfaction. The Master gave a short nod. "For this night only, you may."

The Doctor breathed out his relief. "Thank you," he said again, ever thankful. He paused, gathering the thoughts he had woven through the day, letting the words settle on his tongue before he spoke them. He must never speak falsely, never obscure or pretend. Every night he gives his hearts anew, and they must be worthy of the Master's acceptance.

"That which I was most grateful for," he began, slowly. "When I thought of it, I felt..." His voice caught, and he swallowed, tried anew. "I didn't understand. Why me, why all this." _Why you saved me. Why you built all this, and had me build. I saw only the raw stone and the pain of punishment, and not what you had given me._

He had been so alone, but that pain is phantom now. What good was freedom when there were no walls? He had been a lever without a fulcrum. 

"In taking me, you made me a part of something greater," he continued. "Today I finished the fractal designs, based on the equations you gave me. And I _saw_..."

The Master leant forward. "Tell me."

"The _power_ ," the Doctor breathed, eyes wide with awe. "I felt it, even in the sketches. I feel it now." Slowly, he raised his hand to his chest, pressing it flat against his skin. He could feel the flickers of energy lingering within him, like lightning in a jar. He dropped his hand as the Master reached out, to press his palm against that same spot. 

"They will worship you," the Doctor said, clear-eyed. "As I..." His voice caught again, but the Master's palm was hot against his chest, and his skin tingled where it was touched. He bowed his head. _As your_ ushaq _does._

The Master's hand lingered, then lifted, catching on the Doctor's chin to raise it. "My devoted," he murmured. His hand slid to the Doctor's cheek, and held it.

"Your devoted," the Doctor echoed, and his chest hitched as he felt the Master's presence slide so naturally into his mind. _You have drawn me to you for this,_ he thought aloud, the words pouring freely without the barrier of speech. _I was reborn for this creation. To serve you and build for you. To write your history._

 _All this and more,_ the Master promised, his voice without source as his presence spread like mist through the thicket of the Doctor's mind. _Tell me your hearts._

 _Full of your love, and love for you,_ the Doctor recited, the ritual words become psalm with repetition. The words echoed in him, over and over, as the Master began the night's cleansing, the removal of old, cruel thorns. His closed eyes winced against the sharp pains as the thorns were sliced and snapped and seared away. But the pains were quick and small, and the Master's hand began to work away the tangle, to let in air and light to places that had seen only darkness.

If the Master becomes a god, then the Doctor is his first adherent, the Doctor's praises are his first prayers. _I built you a holy shrine. When I saw its truth, I lost my breath. And when I found it again, I was grateful._

The Doctor opened his eyes, and saw the Master looking back. His face was upturned to the Master, his neck craned, his lips parted. He felt the Master's hand steady against his cheek, the Master's gaze reaching into the deepest parts of him. The world was clarified, distilled into one moment, bright and full.

And then with a sudden break, the Master was gone from his mind. The hand dropped from his cheek, and the Master straightened, his eyes obscured.

"You may sleep now," the Master said, simply.

The Doctor breathed out. He let his head hang, his spine curve. "Thank you, _effendim_ ," he said, sliding his disappointment into a bow. He cannot have what he has not yet earned. He knew that, yet the waiting was so hard. 

With a gentle push, the Master moved him aside. The Master stood, and guiding the Doctor by his leash, led him to his place at the foot of the bed. The Master placed a pillow on the rug, and the Doctor curled up against it as his leash was tied to the bedpost. The familiar rituals were a comfort, at least. The Master tucked a blanket around him, and brushed back his hair.

"Sleep," the Master said, and walked away.

The Doctor lay awake, watching under shuttered lashes as the Master doused the lamps, one by one. He wanted to sleep, wanted to obey, but he wanted the Master, not this cold floor. He wanted taste the Master's lips without the stain of wine. He wanted, he yearned, and sleep was miles away.

He heard the soft padding of feet, looked up to find Mirza standing over him. She sniffed him, and he reached out a hand from beneath his blanket, offering it. She sniffed it, then rubbed her cheek against it, and allowed him to scratch there. She churred loudly, satisfied, and made her choice for the night, lowering herself and then plopping down against him. She licked her fur, lay her head down, and was instantly asleep.

The Doctor smiled fondly, feeling the warmth of her soaking through the blanket. The room was almost dark as the Master carried over a single lamp, and climbed into bed himself. And then that light, too, was gone, and there were only the moon and the stars, streaming in from the garden through the windows.

§

The Doctor lay awake in the darkness, and sleep was far from him. Mirza was peaceful beside him, her breathing low and even. She purred as she dreamed, a low, soothing rumble, but neither that nor her warmth could make him drowse. The restless energy of the day would not leave him, was not eased this time by the rituals of the evening. There was so much need in him that his very soul ached. He could not rest, and despaired of ever finding rest again.

He stared at the ceiling, but saw only inside himself. He searched for the fading traces of the Master's presence, the echoes of the Master's touch upon his mind, and gathered them against himself, clung to them as if drowning. 

Once that simple tending would have been enough; he had only needed to kneel in the Master's presence, to be gently touched, to let the Master take away his thorns, and sleep would have come so easily to him. But for weeks the need in him had grown too great, his hearts so full that they ached as if to burst, and no balm was enough. He had redoubled his devotions, thrown himself fully into the minaret's designs, poured himself out with every breath, but still he was overfull, and he could not bear it.

His eyes turned to the open doors of the garden, and the pale moonlight streaming in. _That moon,_ he thought, reciting, _which the sky ne'er saw even in dreams, has returned and brought a fire no water can quench. Had Plato seen the loveliness and beauty of that moon, he would have become even madder and more distressed than I._

 _Effendim,_ he yearned, pleaded in silence. _Take the burden of my hearts from me. Empty and scour me, and empty me again._

He sighed deeply, and his long breath made Mirza stir. Her ear twitched in annoyance, and with a long glide she stretched and stood. Her yawn was vicious with teeth, and she licked the sleep from her whiskers. Without looking back, she left him, slinking towards the garden, and vanishing into it. 

Cool air filled the space she left behind. Instinctively, the Doctor rose, knowing he must follow her, hoping that the cool green of the garden would ease the fire in his hearts. He crawled in her footsteps, but was stopped short as the leash snapped taut from its anchor on the bedpost. The Doctor mewled low in his throat, rumbled in frustration, but did not touch the leash, could not touch it. He must get to the garden, he must, but the Master placed him here, the Master bound his lead. No lock held him, but no lock was needed to hold him, and so he stayed, body taut as the leather, the collar pulling hard against his throat, and his chest hurt, it hurt. 

In desperation, he lowered himself against the cold floor, pressing his front to the marble. The chill sank into his flesh, and he bowed his head to the ground, flattened himself until the collar nearly strangled him. But still his hearts burned, they burned and burned until the chill shrank away, until his body was bright with fever. Without sound he prayed, he begged, but still the white heat of him grew and grew until he was not heat but flame, until he was fire. His skin pricked and his eyes teared with smoke; his spine sizzled and his blood boiled. The jewels of his collar glowed with sparks, and the bronze loop for his leash glowed forge-hot, burned like a brand at his neck. The leather of the leash could not bear such heat, and with a snap he was free, crawling, stumbling towards the moonlight.

"Thank you," he whispered, as flames licked from his mouth, his nostrils. He was seared inside, his flesh in embers, smouldering without end. Nothing could quench it, but still he tried, chasing the moon. He saw its reflection shimmering in the long, low fountain, and breathed in sweet night air as he dove to greet it.

He dove, and the moon was gone, the pool was ocean, vast and deep. He swam and swam, sinking into darkness, into cold and black. He swam until he saw only the white glow of his own fire, the blue fluorescence of monstrous, blind fish. Until at last the great pressure of the ocean weighed him down, and his feet rested flat upon the sandy bed. And still it was not enough.

He wrapped his arms around himself, and knelt upon the sand, and was still. He breathed out, giving up the last of his air, and let himself rise, following the glimmering bubbles. He made no effort, but allowed the sea to carry him, to guide him. The sea lightened, and his own light began to fade.

He came to rest in a forest of tall, swaying kelp. They caught at his limbs, grasping and tangling around him. Curious, bright fish darted around him, gliding through his hair, hiding there and then darting away. Far above he saw the splash of sea otters, playing at the surface, dropping broken shells from their bellies. The shells scattered around him, and in one he saw a black pearl, small and perfect, waiting to be plucked. It called to him, and he reached for it, wanting to make a gift of it to his effendim, but the weeds thickened around him, blinding him, trapping him. His lungs ached for air, and he kicked to free himself, whirling in desperation, faster and faster, until he could see nothing but the kelp, feel nothing but their smooth, slippery leaves, until his body had no choice but to open his mouth and to _breathe_ \--

And air rushed into him, and his mad kicks whirled him against not water but polished marble, and he was spinning, spinning, green veils falling away from him to the floor. He staggered to a halt and bowed, dizzied. His head rushed with blood, but through the pounding he heard music, applause.

As his vision cleared, he saw a lushly decorated room, saw young, beautiful slaves lounging on pillows and low sofas. And he saw the Master on a bed, splayed lazily against soft pillows, embraced by a naked boy, a naked girl. They were touching him and touched by him, they were flushed and aroused, and their mouths were on his cock. The Doctor's flame burned bright with sudden, awful jealousy. 

"So you finally came back," the Master said, voice drawling with disinterest, and low with pleasure. He groaned as he petted the head of the girl, encouraging her tongue. 

The Doctor's anger flared. "I never left," he said, reflexively resting his hand over his burning hearts. The Master chuckled, and the Doctor's hand clenched against his skin. 

A harem slave bowed to the Master, presenting to him a jewelled cup. The Master drank from it, and when he lowered the cup his lips were stained with wine. He pulled the slave to him, and brushed back the boy's curls, and kissed him until the boy's lips matched his own. The boy shone with love for his Emir, and kneeled upon the bed to join the others in their worship of the Master's body. The Master groaned again as those stained lips began their prayers.

"I have so many wonderful slaves," the Master drawled, looking down upon them with delight.

"I am no mere slave," the Doctor declared, back straight with pride. He felt such heat against his fist that it might sear his skin, but did not drop his hand. No longer did he fight the flame but let it feed, let it swell. _Burn_ , he commanded it, breathing deep to feed it. His lungs were a bellows, and the embers inside him flared, the flames consumed. Yet still they could not hollow him of his need.

"Then what are you?" the Master challenged.

"I am scoured," the Doctor said, defiant. "There is no part of me that is not you. Deny me, and deny yourself."

The Master sneered. "A mere slave, and you think yourself above your lord. Kneel, slave, and beg that you may live."

Pain tried to enter him, then, the pain of rejection, of fear, but the fire burned too hot for it. "I will not kneel," the Doctor defied. 

The Master's eyes narrowed, and he showed his teeth. He leaned forward, disrupting the slaves at his lap. One moved as if to leave, but the Master grabbed him cruelly by his hair, knuckles white as he held the boy down. "I don't like to give the same order _twice_ ," the Master hissed. But still the Doctor stood, and still his chin was high with pride.

With a snarl, the Master threw the boy onto the floor, and cast out his hand. " _Kneel_ ," he cried, and his hand became a fist. 

The Doctor choked back a cry as a terrible force tried to drag him down. His knees shook and bent, yet he forced them straight again, and held them still. But the force redoubled, and his shoulders curled as his legs trembled under its weight. _No_ , he shouted, though the word never left his tongue. _I will not kneel!_ And as the pressure upon him grew, as the Master's face turned red with fury, the Doctor's very blood began to boil from the plasmic heat of his fire. He crossed his arms against himself, and bowed his head, and felt the steam of his own blood sear him.

The Master looked upon him, and thought him defeated. His face was a mask of cruel joy as he opened his fist around the sight of the bowed Doctor, and _squeezed_. But in that instant, as he thought his victory upon him, the palm of his hand sizzled and burned. He gripped his wrist and his mocking smile had vanished, revealing hate, revealing malice. He reached out to smash the Doctor to the ground, but as his hand fell, the Doctor uncoiled, the Doctor _leapt_.

The Doctor laughed as his feet parted from the ground, as the heat raised him high, made him light as flame itself. He danced from the Master's cruel reach, leapt like a swift gazelle. His arms tinkled with copper bells, his fingers with cymbals. The bells at his ankles echoed the call. He fell and rose again, again, kicking out against the air, his muscles taut as his whole body _reached_ for the hidden sky. He caught a hanging veil as he fell, spreading it around himself as he twisted, as he twirled. 

He looked down upon the Master, upon the watchful slaves, and his smile was wide for them, was bright with joy for them. _See this!_ his body cried, exulting. _I am this!_ And then it was he who saw, for he landed before a shining mirror, and saw his reflection as the moon upon the water. He chased it, reached for it, but the face he touched was as cold as it was beautiful. His lips were full and red, his cheeks high with colour, his eyes stroked dark with kohl. A golden chain crossed his forehead, his hair in curls around it, and the jewels of his collar glowed with deep fire. His vest was high on his chest, the green silk shimmering in the oil light; his shalwars were so fine that the silk was but a breath, was a flicker of colour over his naked skin, and he was revealed.

 _See this_ , his reflection told him. _Heart-ravishing. Bird and snare._

He breathed out, and turned from the mirror with intent. The Master's fury had submerged again, and in spite he fucked the boy who had worshipped him with wine-dark lips. The boy rode upon his cock, with yearning clear upon his brow. The Master had gathered his slaves around him, and they yearned to serve, to give themselves to him, to be broken upon his altar. _No_ , the Doctor thought, commanded silent to them. _He is_ my _effendim, and he will worship his ushaq alone._

The slaves were deaf to him, and the Master had drowned his senses in their flesh. But the Doctor would make himself seen, and the sight before them would not be denied. The harem musicians still played, and the Doctor began to sway to the steady beat, to make his hips tremble with the drums. He began a slow walk towards the Master, wrapping the stolen veil around himself, hiding and revealing himself behind billowing silk. 

At the centre of the floor, he stopped his approach. In slow circles he danced, swaying, teasing glances from behind the veil. His eyes were locked upon the Master, daring him, tempting him to restore his favour. The Master must want him, must need him the way the Doctor needs his Master, his effendim. The Lover and the Beloved must be equal, must be one. _Tear the clothes from my body,_ he called to the Master, mind to mind. _Tear away the layers between us. Reveal the unrevealed._

Yet still the Master denied him, blinded himself to the seduction before him. The Master fucked his slaves, feasted upon their bodies, and had no care for the one who loved him most. The Doctor's defiance flared anew, and he saw the quick tongues upon the Master's body, and he moved his tongue as if upon the Master's thigh, as if questing up to taste the richness of him. And as his tongue moved, so his body moved, his hips' trembling sliding to a long wave of lust. His hands reached out to hold the Master close, to cling as his lips sucked upon hotter flesh. The Master groaned in his bed, and to the Doctor that groan was of his own coaxing, his own generous mouth. His lips parted wide, and he felt hard, heavy flesh upon his tongue, tasted the sharpness that dribbled towards his throat. 

With his head back he swallowed, swallowed, displaying the bob of his throat, the arch of his neck. His mouth closed with a kiss, and he swooned, falling back, his back arching until his knees were forced to bend, to part. His head rolled as he slid to his knees, doubled back upon himself, hands running in long caresses down his body. His eyes were closed as he touched himself, as he drew soft touches down his sides and hips, as he cupped his swollen groin. His cock was hot behind the bare silk, and his belly and his thighs trembled to be touched. He raised his arms, then, high over his head until his shoulders felt the floor beneath them, making his knees rise and spread. He thrust helplessly into the air, knees undulating, welcoming.

Untouched, he rolled onto his front, still thrusting, dragging himself against the marble. He rolled across it, sheathing himself in his veil and then rising to his knees, letting the veil fall down around him, baring him again. He crawled forward now, abandoning the veil, writhing like a snake towards the Master's low bed. But when he drew close, he turned himself away. Not in retreat, but lewd display: his arse raised high, and with a sudden thrust of his hips, he groaned aloud. Without shame he let himself be pushed forward by his thoughts of the Master's cock inside him, the Master's fingers curling on his hips, the Master _fucking_ him. His erection dragged along the floor, leaving wet smears upon the fine marble, and the wetness upon his trousers made them cling as they revealed. 

He rode upon the memory of the Master's cock, let it shove and push and drag him until he was splayed again at the foot of the Master's bed. He rolled onto his back, body stretched long, breathing deep of the Master's scent, his musk, feeling so close, so ready to be taken, to fuck and be fucked.

"Take him from my sight," the Master hissed, and suddenly hands were upon the Doctor, but not the Master's hands. It was his slaves who grabbed the Doctor's body, who seized him to drag him away, who denied him his Beloved. The Doctor breathed deep, and brushed them aside, freeing himself from their grip, springing free once more. He was no mere harem slave. He would _not_ be held, _not_ be contained. 

The slaves chased after him, compelled by the Master's order. For all his jealousy, the Doctor did not wish to harm them. Instead he trapped them, let them chase him to a corner and then leapt high. He pulled down veil after veil, pulled down curtains and heavy cloth, until the poor slaves were helplessly entangled. Laughing, the Doctor bounded past them, leaping lightly across the floor, ready to claim the Master for himself at last.

But as he reached the Master's bed, as he reached out, three guards rushed forward to block his way. They nearly caught him, and as the Doctor slipped free they pulled out menacing swords. Their blades sliced the air, almost catching him as he scurried away. He leapt up onto the wall and somersaulted above their heads, catching the blunt side of one blade as he flew past. "Ah ha!" he cried, as he landed upon his toes.

He twirled the sword into the air, and caught it by its handle. He turned to face the guards, grinning, but faltered as he found them gone. He whirled back, eyes searching, and then all breath was knocked from him as a weight pounced upon his back. His stolen sword clattered away as strong arms wrapped tight around his chest. His arms trapped, he wriggled and writhed, and gasped for air as his chest was painfully squeezed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of lapis blue upon the capturing arms, and gave a growling cry. No guard would capture him so easily, would crush his lungs, his hearts. As the arms wrapped tighter, he lashed out, kicking the guard's knees. He felt the breath of the guard as he hissed against the Doctor's neck, and the Doctor wasted no time. He slammed his head back, smashing the guard's face, and instantly the weight was gone. The Doctor scrambled free, gulping in perfumed air, stumbling again to his feet.

He turned back, and the guard was gone. Vanished just as before, except for the bloody smear that dried upon the gleaming marble. The Doctor scrambled for his sword, and grabbed it just as light glinted at the corner of his eye. Instinctively he raised his arm to block, but the blade was hit not by a sword but the sharp clank of an arrow. The wooden shaft clattered to the floor as he leapt for cover behind a low sofa.

The room was silent; the harem slaves had stopped their music. The Doctor held his breath as he listened, yearning past the pounding in his ears. A faint pluck, and then the thunk of an arrow embedding itself into the wall above him.

The archer spoke. "Rise, _slave_ , and cast yourself upon your Emir's mercy."

"I am no slave," the Doctor called, and did not rise. "And he will cast himself before _me_."

The archer laughed. "You are prey to him as you are to me. You would be wise to offer your head, before the hunter takes it."

The Doctor lay on his back, and angled his sword towards the voice. The distorted reflection of the archer gleamed in the steel, revealing a soldier of the Master's elite, clad in malachite green. This was no mere harem guard 

As the Doctor lowered his sword, a new reflection was caught: the Master, deserted of his slaves, standing silent by the wall. For the Doctor to reach him, he would but have to brave the archer's aim. 

He would brave it, then. 

"You are already beaten," the archer declared. "Fight, and you will find that the Emir does not bow to the dead." The limb of his bow creaked as it was drawn back.

The Doctor turned onto his front and crouched, preparing to run. He held the sword before him like a shield.

"I do not miss," the archer warned.

"And my arm is strong," the Doctor hissed, and _ran_. 

The first arrow was immediately upon him, let fly before he made even his first step. But his arm _was_ strong, strong from the weight of thousands of stones. His eye was fast, ever faster than the quickest human. The first arrow was brushed aside by the swipe of his sword. The second was a nimble evasion, left to skitter across the marble. The third he divided upon the air, and he blinked as he sprinted through the shower of its splinters.

The archer had no time for a fourth. The Doctor's blade divided his bow as neatly as the arrow's shaft, and on its return stroke it cut the archer's belt before the man could reach for his dagger. But the Doctor's prize had vanished: the Master was gone. 

"No!" the Doctor snarled, and in his fury threw his sword at where the Master had stood. The blade's tip bit into the wall, and the hilt swung drunkenly at the empty air. 

"Fool," came a voice, and a sharp, curved blade against the back of his neck. The Doctor froze. His eyes glanced past the broken belt and bow, but it was not their owner's voice that spoke behind him. The archer had vanished as surely as the guard before him.

"The Master sends another to stop me?" the Doctor said, with a manic laugh. " _Coward_."

"The Emir sends his executioner to bring back your head," came the reply. "I came expecting a fight, yet here is your surrender." The blade pressed forward, and the Doctor's spine straightened as it bit into his skin. 

No. _No._ Enough. He would not bear this obstruction, _not_ be denied what was rightfully his. Whatever barriers the Master put between them, the Doctor would topple and shatter. Whoever stood in his way, he would force them to the ground. 

"Surrender?" he said, laughing. "Tell me where he is. The Emir, who flees from his master."

"He has ordered your death," the executioner said. "He will never hear your cries. If you seek mercy, pray to your gods."

The pressure of the axe increased, and the Doctor shut his eyes tight. His mind raced for an escape. _Oh, I will pray_ , he thought. _I will pray to Time herself, to Death eternal. My soul prays to them, and oh, let it_ sing _._

Against his neck was the slightest movement, a murmur of air as the axe pulled back for the killing blow. It was so little, but it was all he needed, all he ever needs. _Time_. And in that narrow second, he saw the way, and fell like a stone to the floor. The blade passed him as waves pass the sky, and he was free, he was rolling to his feet and was gone. Fragments of hair tickled his neck, and he brushed them away.

He had no weapon. No escape. But he had himself, and no one would stop him.

He aimed for the wall, his stride long and fast, but already the executioner was behind him, roaring his fury. But the Doctor ran, he ran, and no one was faster than him. The sword was there, still where he'd thrown it in his fury, the end of the blade jammed into the wall. He leapt and grabbed the hilt. With all his strength, with the desperation of survival, he braced his feet against the wall and _hauled_ and _screamed_ because he _would not fail_. His muscles strained and with a dull scrape the sword fell free. Momentum whirled him around, and instinct raised his arms, for the axe was again singing through the air, singing for his blood. 

Metal smashed against metal, but this was no simple swordfight. The curved axe slid down and nearly sliced through his wrist. He'd lost enough hands for one regeneration, he thought, as he jumped out of range.

"It will do you no good to struggle," the executioner growled. The man was strong, and wore simple, close-fitting clothes, dyed in violent red and covered with mail; on his head, a helmet with devlish horns, and a silvered battle mask. Only his eyes could be seen. "Only a fool runs from his Emir. Only a fool denies his command."

"That's me," the Doctor said, suddenly grinning. "Always have been a fool. Always will be."

"Yes," the executioner agreed. "For here is where you shall die."

Another swing, and the Doctor knocked it sideways with his sword. "Have to do better than that," he teased. 

The executioner snarled as he brought the axe down again, but the Doctor was ready this time, was lithe and quick where his foe's very strength slowed him down. The Doctor leapt over the Master's bed, and the axe sliced down, burying itself in the mattress. For a moment the head was trapped, but the frustrated executioner yanked it free with a grunt, sending feathers flying from the mattress.

The Doctor laughed at the sight of feathers drifting around the furious executioner. He skipped lightly in an arc, sword out and taunting. "Can't catch me," he grinned. "Want to try again?"

The executioner lunged towards him, but the Doctor flitted from his path. "Not fast enough," he chided, and twirled his sword in a mocking display. "I've fought with the best. You should have seen me in Japan, fighting off those samurai. Better yet, go ask the Emir about the time--" The Doctor yelped as the axe flew towards him, spinning through the air. He threw himself from its path, but not fast enough. The blade was fine and sharp, and the thin cloth of his vest tore, the flesh of his side parted. The Doctor cried out and staggered away, nerves screaming with the memory of metal scraping past his ribs. His side was wet as he held it, sticky with spreading blood. Footsteps passed him, then returned.

The executioner stood before him, and chuckled as he wiped the blood from his weapon. "You will not escape," he declared, arrogant with certainty. "If you wish your death to be quick, you will kneel."

"Never," the Doctor spat. " _Never_." And then he knew that it was past the time for running, for games. He must fight or he would lose, he would die. He straightened, stood tall as he faced the executioner. He raised his sword as he did against the Sycorax; he would win the Master as surely as he had won the Earth. 

The Doctor stopped holding back. He stopped defending, and attacked with a battle cry, lunging for the executioner's weaknesses. An axe is a brutal weapon, but it is made to swipe and to chop, and not to thrust, not to block. There is no finer weapon than a sword, and the Doctor was honest in his gloating. Even his bleeding side was nothing to him as he drove his enemy back, vision bright with flashing steel. The executioner struggled in defense, given no quarter, no chance to attack. At last a blow forced his axe back, and then he had no defense at all. The Doctor whirled once more, with all his might, and his sword _flew._

His arm barely felt the impact. There was only a slight resistance as the tip sliced through the executioner's throat, carving out a thin, dark smile. The executioner's eyes were wide behind his mask, and he staggered once before he fell, crashing to the floor with the axe held tight in his fist. His head cracked against the marble, and the mask tumbled free, rolling drunkenly before its own noisy fall. The Doctor was distantly aware of the sound of it, rocking back and forth, painted metal against polished marble. And then another sound, the loud clang of his sword dropping from nerveless fingers. His mouth went dry, the cry of triumph curdling on his tongue. 

What had he done? _What had he done?_

He was not aware of falling to his knees, but he reached out to touch the Master's face, to block the awful sight of the Master's sightless eyes, his frozen horror. But his fingers came back red, sticky with the Master's still-warm blood. It spilled out in a gruesome halo on the floor, spreading steadily towards him. Panic stole his breath as he skittered away; the touch of his fingers left bloody smears in his wake, and his throat whimpered as he reached for something, for anything to wipe them clean.

He felt wetness on his palm, and raised his hand to find the blood still dripping, still spreading as if from his own fresh wound. He flung his hand away, and the white marble at his feet was flecked with red, and each red dot began to _bleed_.

"No no no," he mumbled, slurred, mind white with static. "No no no no no." He didn't know, he didn't _know_. The Master's corpse stared balefully at him. The Doctor shook his head, unable to accept his own senses. "Master," he cried, a strangled whimper. His face crumpled. " _Master!_ " he shouted, tears in his eyes as he demanded for the Master to come to him, to be here and whole and alive, and not an empty, dead thing upon the floor, its throat gaping in a terrible yawn. 

But there was nothing, no reply, no vicious laugh or narrowed eyes. There was nothing, and the silence screamed in his ears. The Doctor clutched his head and shook it, shuffling back, back, far away from the gory thing. His back flattened against the wall, and panic welled fresh in him. He felt something brush his cheek and turned in a blind panic, scrabbling madly. Fine, coloured silk fell upon him like a veil, and he whined in fear as he tore it away. His hearts pounded in his chest, and he reached for those that still hung, as if to climb from this place. But each hanging tore and fell, unable to bear his weight, and he flung them away, furious and crying.

His body heaved with pain. Somehow he found his sword, and somehow he gripped it, clumsily with both hands at once, like a fumbling child. He held it out but the Master did not come to fight; he threatened the dead thing in his shape, but the dead thing did not rise. The blood reached the edge of the fallen fabrics, and the edge began to darken and sink. The Doctor felt sick, would be sick; he could bear it no more. In a frenzy he threw fine silk over the body, covered it in tapestries and beauty, but still he saw it, and nothing could hide the ugly thing beneath. 

He had to bury it, bury it where it would never be seen, never be found. Bury it deep under stone and wood. With a wild scream he drove his sword into the wall, and with all his weight he dragged it down. He pulled it free and then lunged again, and again, until pieces of the wall began to fall in crumbling chunks. But it was not fast enough, and eyes blind with tears, he stumbled to the bloodied pile and wrenched away the axe. And with it he swung, he raged, chopping and tearing until the walls began to crack, until the room began to tremble. 

" _Yes_ ," he sobbed, dropping the axe as he spread his arms wide. " _Yes!_ " He welcomed destruction, welcomed the grave. His feet danced over silk and rubble as he began to spin, spin, whirling like a dervish, a maddened top. The room became a blur, destruction melting into whirling colours. He span faster and faster, the wind drying his tears as the colours enclosed him, shrinking as fast as he span, until they became a cocoon around him, until he heard nothing but his own staggered breaths and the wind past his ears. And then the light was gone, and there was only darkness, and he could not stop, was not spinning but spun. _Not real, not real, not real_ , said his mind. He screamed into the black, and lashed out his claws, and his fury turned the world to ribbons.

His spinning slowed, slowed, to a gentle turning. His eyes burned but his cheeks were dry, and he stared into the darkness. At first he saw only black, endless black, but then a spark of light, pale and distant, and then another. They were stars, he realised, as if seeing them for the first time. He was not spinning in the void but in the universe itself, in the vastness of space. It could not be real, and if this was not real then nothing was real, then all was illusion. 

His hearts were suddenly light as air, and he cried again but this time from joy, deep and bright. He laughed, and reached up into the galaxies above, and scooped out a handful of stars. He scattered them at his feet, and they shone like glittering jewels. And once again, he began to dance; not struggling against the gentle turning, but letting it carry him, letting it guide his steps. His feet moved in gliding arcs, back and forth as he danced and spun to the music of his soul. It played a song of yearning, lilting and pure, and his whole self welcomed the tune, celebrated each joyful note. That was what he had hidden inside himself, what needed pain to be born, needed grief to understand. But now he had torn it free, cut away those foolish veils, and the way was clear.

"Master," he called, sang to the night. Not a cry but a welcome, an invitation, soul to soul. He called again, again, with his soul, his mind, his voice. His body, too, as he danced, drawing the Master's name in the jewels of suns.

And then he knew that it was not he who was turned, but that the universe turned around him. And then he knew that he need not call for the Master, for the Master was already with him, and had never left.

"Master," he said, and turned to face him. The true Master, his true Master, and not a fearful dream. The true Master, who stood calmly before him, smiling with equal joy. The Master held out his hand, and the Doctor reached for him, but it was black space his hand touched. The Doctor's fingers curled against it, and the very fabric of space was his; he pulled, and space was a black veil in his hand, scattered with diamonds. 

Once more he turned, and the black veil wrapped around him. But he felt no fear, no anger. He felt safe, and loved, and knew the Master was beside him, was always with him, for they were one and one being could never be apart from itself. 

And then his feet pierced the veil beneath them, and he fell, fell, through the Void, through the nothing between the universes. He fell for lifetimes, for ever, for the moment between seconds, and then the night was around him, and the darkness was rich with moonlight. He floated to the ground, wafted like the lightest feather, until his swaying path brought him to the ground. 

As he landed, his feet sank past the grass into the dirt, burying them until the soft blades tickled at his ankles. He wiggled his toes, and smiled as he felt his roots strike out from his feet, seeking moisture from the earth. He breathed out in a sigh, and knew he was home. At long last he was calm, and he was still.

A gentle breeze wafted through the veil, and the silk rustled like leaves. His arms were wrapped around himself, and the skin of them ached and itched He rubbed them against the veil, and felt a stirring inside him, felt something new and wonderful. He pulled the veil tighter around himself, and tighter still, until the thin silk clung to him, moved with him, dragged against the itching of his skin. He looked up to the moon, and saw it was the sun reflected, and knew its rays as life.

He raised his arms high, and the silk curled upon itself, wrapped itself into cords. And the veil was gone from his eyes, and the moonlight full upon his face, upon his skin. His clothes were gone, and he was naked beneath the rope of the veil, naked beneath the moon and the stars, the light of billions of suns, and all suns shone the same. 

His roots struck deeper, and found water, cold and pure. The breeze strengthened, and he swayed, but his roots held fast, and he thanked them. He drew water for his thirst, and the cords around him thickened, for they were not silk, not veil, but his own vines, growing out and through and around him, around the trunk of him. He felt the patient seed inside him grow, fed by a billion suns, by deep water, and all were the Master's love. He breathed in, and he breathed out, and the itching eased as his leaves began to sprout, began to spread themselves and stretch towards the sky. His leaves rustled in the warming breeze, and he smiled as the sky began to lighten, as the first hint of dawn graced the sky.

Each fresh vine that sprouted from him was a gift, was joyous love wrapping tenderly around him, holding him through the birth of dawn. His raised arms spread like branches, and life was bright inside him, a fire to match the yearned-for sun. His leaves became glossy and dark, and grew thick around him as the vines twined thick and strong. The seed was the source of his roots, of his vines, of his pink-tipped buds. The seed of the Master's love, planted in him so long ago, nurtured in worship, and now, and now...

And now the first ray of sun rose over the palace walls, and the vines tightened to the very shape of him, and the pink flowers welcomed the dawn, and the dawn welcomed the Master, slippers soft upon the lush green grass.

The Doctor gasped as his leaves basked beneath the sun. The vines grew faster, now, driven with new life, and struck roots into his skin, into his flesh. But where they touched, he was not flesh but soil, and then not soil but vine and leaf and flower. Layer upon layer they grew, their hunger his transformation, his veins to phloem, his blood to sap. 

The Master stopped before him, and sniffed a perfect flower, and smiled with such pride, such love. "Beautiful," he murmured, caressing the Doctor's glossy leaves. 

The Doctor felt each stroke, and his vines quivered, his sap rose. The Master's stroke ran down his trunk, beneath the dense foliage, until his hand wrapped around what had become of the Doctor's cock. The Master squeezed, and drew his hand back sticky with sap. He licked at his fingers, relishing the morning's sweetness.

The Master parted the vines that were once the Doctor's hair, and looked up into the Doctor's face one final time. With sticky lips, the Master kissed him, one final time, and the kiss was a blessing, was the sun beneath his skin.

The Master's nearness, his touch, drove the growing vines to madness. They drove into the Doctor's mouth, his nose, and filled his lungs; they drove into his arse, and the narrow tip of his cock, and grew thick within him. They rooted in him, feeding upon him, hastening his completion. Soon he had no breath, but that which his leaves breathed for him; no blood, but that which flowed as sap through vine; no eyes, for his eyes were flowers, sweet with pollen, with nectar.

This was the moment, the very moment of union, and all he was before was falling away. He was nothing but the vines, now, vines in the shape of a man, with a burning fire where his hearts once lay. And the fire was swollen, was overfull, so that his whole self might at any moment burn and be consumed anew. With every touch of the Master's hand upon him, the vines grew and grew until at last they slowed, they stilled, for there was nothing left but the fire. 

The Master touched where his chest had been, the Doctor's leaves sighed and parted. They rustled as if from the wind, and the vines obeyed without command, opening the way to the waiting gift within. The Master reached into the crackling fire and was not burned, and when his hand drew back, he held in his palm a black stone, perfectly round and polished smooth.

The Master closed his eyes, and kissed the vines that were the Doctor's lips. And when he opened his eyes, they were not brown but as golden as the Doctor's fire. The Master chuckled softly, and he raised his hand, and kissed the stone. And when his lips left it, his eyes were brown again, and the fire was upon the stone: the Master's _miim_ engraved, and full of fire And in the space where the Doctor's hearts once lay, the fire began to dim, began to cool. 

The Master watched as the last embers died in the Doctor's chest, watched as the vines loosed their grip. Where the Doctor had been, there was only a hollow space, and then that too was gone, vanished as the vines fell to the ground, with one last rustling cry: _effendim!_ And then they were silent, and withered into dust.

All that was left was the stone in his hand, and the fire within.

The Master gripped the stone tight, and then tighter. His knuckles were white as he squeezed with all his might, until at last the stone obeyed, shrinking and shrinking in his grip. And when the Master opened his fist, it was not a stone he held but a pearl, black and shining. A precious gift, given freely. A seed that had grown and ripened, and now met its harvest.

The Master placed the pearl upon his tongue, and swallowed it. Inside him, the raging fire joined his own, and within it was tamed, became calm as the wick-flame of a lamp. Satisfied, the Master turned his back upon the dusty grass, and walked from the garden. He paused only once, and smiled, and then was gone.

§

The Doctor woke gasping, body aching as if he had been running, running. His first thought was of the TARDIS; where was the TARDIS? His mind sought for her, but she was silent to him, and his eyes opened wide with fear. He saw nothing, and then the world took shadow-filled shape. A half-glimpsed monster reformed into a potted plant, a hanging cloak. He cast around himself, skin chilled and damp with sweat, and pulled his blanket from where it had fallen in his sleep. He held it against himself for warmth, for comfort.

There was a dream, a dream, but already it was in fragments, and the fragments obscured. He remembered vines, and water, and the moon; he'd dreamed of them many times, yet they were lost to him anew with every waking. He touched his chest, and was somehow surprised that it did not burn him. His body felt like an unfamiliar thing, as if it should be made of other matter. Yet he felt lighter now than he had before his rest, as if some awful pressure in him had been eased, if only enough to bear it another day.   
_Oblivion_. A fragment of dream returned to him: the memory of dissolution, of subsumation into greater fire. Green leaves shrivelling to dust... His hand curled against his chest, and he shivered. To be so hollowed...

He heard a sound, and at first thought it his own: thick with need, and trembling. He was trembling, he realised; his chills gone, replaced by the familiar heat that flushed through his skin. He moved his arm, and the blanket brushed against his aching erection. He must have been this way for hours, for his arousal to be so terrible.

The sound again, and not his own. Again, and he recognised the Master in it He fumbled to his knees, and froze.

Even in the darkness, there was no mistaking the sight. The Master, his robes parted, covers kicked aside; the Master, hand gripping his glistening erection. The Master, legs stretched, head pressed back, the long, lean sweetness of him bared and _offered_. This time, the trembling sound, desperate with need, was unquestionably the Doctor's own.

The Master shifted, pale thighs spreading without shame; the Doctor glimpsed flushed, swollen balls, and his mouth watered. He swallowed, and caught his lip between his teeth, and felt sick with lust. He must touch, he _must_ , but he could not. Was not allowed, not for this, to serve but not to take, not to taste and suck and _fuck_. Was not allowed to touch himself, not without order, without command, no matter how he _ached_. 

The Master's lashes fluttered, and the slits of his eyes glittered in the moonlight. The corners of his mouth tugged upwards, and he made a low, happy groan. "Ushaq," he sighed, thumb rubbing a slickened circle upon the end of his cock. "Serve me."

The words were barely a whisper, but to the Doctor they were a shout. In his haste, he nearly choked himself, tangling in his own leash. Through the panic of lust, he crawled to the Master's side, to the very edge of the bed. In obedience he kneeled, he crossed his wrists behind his back, but he could not bear to bow his head, to lose this sight. He could not bear to even blink. 

"Effendim," he managed, voice tight with need. "I serve."

The Master's smile lengthened, dark and lazy. "You do," he said, and a pulse of arousal made him writhe. He turned onto his side, rubbing his hip against the bed. "Your dreaming woke me," he said, mildly accusing.

The Doctor stared dumbly at the Master's cock, mere inches from him, from his yearning tongue. "What?" he said, with a sudden, strange guilt.

"Your _sounds_ ," the Master said, drawing the words out in a moan. "The whimpers you made. Such beauty..."

The Doctor blushed, and was grateful for the darkness. "I do not remember what I dreamed," he admitted, and now that was a mercy. If he had remembered, the Master would have made him confess it all. 

"Now that is a shame," the Master drawled. "I think you dreamed of me. And I would love to know what I did to draw such sounds."

The Doctor's cheeks were hot, and at last he bowed his head. "I do not remember," he repeated. But an image came to him even with the words: the Master's harem, the Master's nakedness. _Jealousy._ His breath was caught.

"Nothing at all?" the Master coaxed. The sheets whispered as the Master shifted closer. The Doctor could hear the wet slide of his oiled hand.

"I tried to reach you," the Doctor said, suddenly. The knowledge came to him as if given. He raised his head, and was caught within the Master's gaze. "I needed you," he said, so softly he barely heard the words himself. 

"I am here," the Master reassured, gently. 

But need tightened the Doctor's throat: need for the Master's closeness, for his touch. He could not find the words to beg for what he needed, could only give a high, soft whimper. He bowed his head again, his chin touching his chest. 

The Master breathed in through his teeth, and out in a hiss of pleasure. "Again," he commanded.

A sound wrenched itself from the Doctor's chest, a reedy moan; and then a whine, pained with honest pleading. 

" _Fuck_ ," the Master hissed, and the slick sounds were faster now. "Look at me. _Now_."

The Doctor raised his head, his own breathing suddenly ragged. " _Master_ ," he groaned, for once forgetting his place, for once abandoning pretense. " _Please_ , I--"

" _Ushaq_ ," the Master growled, putting him back in his place with one simple word. " _Remember_."

And at the Master's command, the Doctor gasped, eyes wide in shock as he remembered his dream-self's pleading, his demands, his lustful dance. Remembered the burning of his hearts, and his desperate knowledge that only the Master could soothe them. It was as clear in him as a memory, and in that moment he became it: _Heart-ravishing. Bird and snare._

When his vision cleared, the Master's eyes were feasting upon him, the Master's fist was tight around his cock, holding back his own arousal.

" _Beg_ ," the Master growled, eyes bright with joy. "My beautiful _slave._ "

"Not your slave," the Doctor breathed, panting. "I will _have_ you."

The Master grinned wide. " _Tell me_ ," he commanded.

The Doctor choked, groaned. "I will hold you down," he said, thick with lust. He leaned closer. "I will make you beg, with my hand around your _cock_." He raised his hand, fingers curled as if to grab the Master now, for his own hand to squeeze and stroke, and not the Master's. 

The Master snarled, his knuckles white. "Closer," he hissed. 

The Doctor shuffled forward, his front pressed against the edge of the mattress. He was so close now, could smell the perfumed oil, the wetness dripping down the gleaming shaft. His mouth watered, and he bowed his head, bowed it lower...

" _Stop._ "

The Master's free hand grabbed at his leash and pulled, holding him there, holding him back. He swallowed against the sharp pull of his collar. It took all his will not to struggle, not to _take_.

"Hold," the Master said, and tugged again at the leash. He let go, and the Doctor gripped the leather. "Tighter," the Master ordered, and the Doctor pulled until his breathing shallowed.

"Good," the Master said, eyes narrowing with pleasure. His hand began to move again, a slow, idle stroke. The Doctor felt the movement in the air upon his face. 

"You may touch yourself," the Master said, generously. "Anywhere except your cock." His smile darkened. "Come, and you will regret it."

" _Effendim_ ," the Doctor whimpered, obedient despite his struggling. He leaned back, and with his free hand, he touched his chest. The brush of a nipple made him shudder, and his cock bobbed beneath his short loincloth, the head of it peeking past the fabric. He pinched his nipple hard, and winced.

" _Yes_ ," the Master hissed, shifting upon the bed. He released himself and picked up the small bottle of oil from his bedside table. He brought it forward, and tipped it, dribbling a trickle of it upon the head of the Doctor's cock. The Doctor gave a strangled groan, and the Master smiled warmly. 

The Doctor bit his lip. He curled his fingers, and pressed his nails into his skin. Pain, he needed pain.

The Master did not. The Master dribbled oil upon his own hand, his own cock, his swollen balls. He rubbed lewdly at himself, sprawled back upon the bed, arched and hissed. He moaned openly, groaning and gasping; he turned his back, and pressed his fingers inside himself, forcing the Doctor to watch as he writhed; to stare, as he roughly thrust his fingers deep, as he spread himself wide. 

The more the Master wallowed in his pleasure, the more the Doctor struggled against his own. He pulled tighter on his leash, until his head was dizzied, his teeth bared; he dug his nails into his skin, dragged scratches upon his side. He slapped hard at his stomach, at his thighs, and whimpered and snarled against his need. And the Master watched him, the Master smiled at each strike, each mark. The Doctor glared back at him, but could not stop himself, any more than he could grab the Master, could hold him down. 

At last the Master spread himself along the edge of the bed, cock jutting out past the mattress, the dripping head almost touching the Doctor's chest. Oil and pre-come dripped from the tip, one drop landing on the Doctor's loincloth, another on his cock. The Doctor made a strangled noise, like any desperate animal. 

"Beg for me," the Master rumbled, flushed with arousal, struggling himself to hold back. " _Beg_."

The Doctor let out a long, wavering groan, and it ended with a sobbing gasp Desperate, he reached beneath his loincloth, but not for his cock. He wrapped his hand around his balls, and _squeezed_.

His pain was a breathless wail. Distantly, he heard the Master's shout, his gasps. When the Doctor could think again, he slumped, exhausted and wild, but he had not come, he had not come. 

The Master was lazy upon the bed, his hand dripping white. He was hazy with satisfaction, grinning wide. He cupped his hand and raised it up, held it out.

The Doctor stared at it, still panting, head thick with arousal and pain. He smelled the Master's come, and a long, thready whimper was drawn from him "Please," he whispered, his breath touching the tips of the Master's fingers. 

"Tell me what you are," the Master said, softly. 

"Ushaq," the Doctor said, urgently. "I am ushaq."

"You are," the Master said, suddenly clear-eyed with certainty. He tilted his hand, and come slid to his fingertips, almost tipping over. The Doctor opened his mouth to serve, to claim his small reward, but then the hand was gone, pulled away. The Master wiped his hand upon the sheets, and dragged a corner over his cock to clean it. The Doctor slumped back, and sagged.

But the Master was not entirely unkind. He pushed himself up, and touched the Doctor's cheek with his dried hand. The Doctor leaned into the touch, pathetically grateful, hating himself for his own need. Gentle pressure guided him to raise his head, and he obeyed.

The Master kissed him: once, soft, his lips unparted. The Doctor lost his breath from that kiss, and the memory of it froze within his mind even as it ended. He stared at the Master in shock.

"Go to sleep," the Master said, gently. "You will not dream," he promised.

A kiss, the Doctor thought, and could think of nothing but the kiss. He nodded once, and somehow made it back to his place at the end of the bed. His arousal was distant fire. A kiss without wine. He rested his head upon the pillow, breathing shallowly, and sleep rushed to pull him down. He let it take him.

§

The Doctor is pulled from his reverie by a blustering wind. It gusts through the doorway, stealing the heat from his skin and the papers from his hands. Frantic, the Doctor lunges after them, desperate to save every sketch, every word. He flattens the pages against his chest as he gathers them, and shelters them until the gust becomes a gentle breeze, and then is gone.

Is that everything? He isn't certain that he rescued them all, and quickly counts the pages. When he comes up short, his stomach twists, and his eyes dart about the room in search of the one that strayed. He finds it blown against the altar; he picks it up and Mirza's eyes look back at him from the page. A half finished sketch of her, head raised and eyes alert. She is a predator, and beautiful for it.

He turns the page over, and there is another predator--more cruel, and more beautiful to him: his Master, his _effendim_ , as sharp-eyed and regal as his beloved pet. The Doctor could not bear to have lost this.

The Doctor slides to the ground, slumping back against the altar. Another breeze whistles through the room, but he is sheltered here, hidden from sight and wind. He faces where the Master's throne will soon be placed, and looks past the empty space to the mural wall. He sees the first painted curves of the Simurgh, and he smiles. 

This place feels safe to him, in a way that nothing but the TARDIS ever has No matter how restless he feels, this room has a way of calming him, of soothing him. Perhaps because it is his, when he is still allowed nothing else. In this strange, monkish life, the Master's glory has become his refuge The Master's stone and marble ground his body, the Master's vines root his soul, so that he does not wander. Yet for all this, he is coiled in a way he cannot explain, even to himself. He is still, yet he whirls ever-madly; he feels the turning of the universe, but it is a waltz against his own spinning. He is a stone about to crack, and he is helpless to stop himself.

No, not helpless. He has his words, his worship. He has the poem. He flips through the pages, but they are all chaos, their order scattered by the wind. He must order them again, for only that will give him what he needs.

 _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil. O stars' descendant, O Mithra reborn. Behold him that holds the world!_ Here, the first page, the first line. The declaration of the Master's name, of his mythology. And the command: behold, behold.

The poem. It will encircle the room, and guide all who enter it. It is not meant for himself, but for the Master's people, the thousands who will make pilgrimage here. It is to them that the poem speaks, them it instructs. It will teach them how to worship their descended god. It does not matter that each word resonates through the Doctor like a prayer call.

 _Be like the moth, which circles the lamp and offers its body._ The second page. But where the first was written in clear, beautiful lines, this is not written but drawn in arabesques; the words bent into the shape of their meaning: the burning lamp and the fluttering moth. 

_Raise your eyes to him, for he is the sun, the source of all power._ And again a command: Fix your eyes and do not waver, though the brightness burns your eyes. And again, the divinity of the sun: he is Mithra, he is your god.

There is a strange joy in this, one he never would have expected. In his love for the Master, he feels giddy as an Academy boy: all pash-notes and breathless longing. But when he loved the Master as a boy, it was always private, a secret not to be shared. Now... now he feels he _must_ share it. He must share this feeling, this ecstasy of devotion. It would be selfish and cruel to do otherwise. 

Let them be healed as he has been healed. Let them find peace, as he has, in the submission of the soul. Is that not what humans have always yearned for, why they drive themselves into the vastness of the universe? He would give them the heat of the Master's sun, and not the cold loneliness of their natural fate. And he knows they will thank him for it.

But before that can happen, before all that, he must compose the poem. He moves through the pages, murmuring the words aloud:

" _Be like the deer, which, on hearing the horn, offers its head to the hunter._ " As he reads the calligram, he stretches his neck. And then the response: " _Sacrifice yourself to him, for through death he brings life._ " 

His own breast burns with love, as he reads: " _Be like the partridge, which swallows burning coals in love of the moon. Open your heart to him, for he is the illumination of the soul._ "

His body aches to surrender itself, as he speaks: " _Be like the fish, which yields up its life when separated from the sea. Cast yourself unto him, for he is eternal as the endless ocean._ "

" _Be like the bee, entrapped in the closing petals of the lotus._ " At this, the Doctor begins to calm, his body folding upon itself, curling as if pressed down by closing petals. His head bows, and he reads the final lines, from the papers clutched so close: " _Surrender your will to him, for he is the refuge of all who worship him._ " 

"Surrender," he repeats, breathing the word out in a sigh. For the moment, he is still again, calmed from the agitation of his joy. His thoughts are slower, clearer, not stumbling over themselves in their urgency. The image of the Master is perfect and real within his mind, and he is fixed upon it. 

_Refuge_. The Master is his refuge, yes, but what good is a refuge that will not open to him? The Master denies him every morning, every night. The Doctor is certain that he will not bear another night alone and untouched. His hand tightens to a fist. He needs the Master, and if the Master will not take, then he must be taken himself. He must be _taken_.

The Doctor unfolds, straightens. He neatens the papers, and rises smoothly to his feet. His fears have fallen away like veils. He has waited, and with such patience. Tonight, he will be done with waiting. He knows what he must do.

§

_Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil. O stars' descendant, O Mithra reborn. Behold him that holds the world!_  
Be like the moth, which circles the lamp and offers its body.  
 _Raise your eyes to him, for he is the sun, the source of all power._  
Be like the deer, which, on hearing the horn, offers its head to the hunter   
_Sacrifice yourself to him, for through death he brings life._  
Be like the partridge, which swallows burning coals in love of the moon.  
 _Open your heart to him, for he is the illumination of the soul._  
Be like the fish, which yields up its life when separated from the sea.  
 _Cast yourself unto him, for he is eternal as the endless ocean._  
Be like the bee, entrapped in the closing petals of the lotus.  
 _Surrender your will to him, for he is the refuge of all who worship him._

§


	9. Chapter 9

They leave just after dawn, to journey out upon the hunting grounds. The manicured gardens of the palace are left behind, and a well-used trail leads them through the woods. It is a forest of juniper trees, tall slim elms, thick-trunked oaks. The air is still, moist but chilled, carrying the distant trilling of snowcocks, the rustles of foraging creatures. 

A pale mist lays upon the ground, clinging to the shade, to the trees; sunlight slips through their leaves, seeking to burn it away. Autumn has begun its encroach, betrayed by red-tipped maples and the crisp blue of the sky. The Master breathes easily here, his body moving with the even pace of his horse. He holds the reins loose in his hand, having little need to guide his course. The great black stallion calmly follows the horses of the gamekeepers and the guards that lead them. Behind him is a long tail of servants and carts, and the members of his council, for whom this hunt has been prepared.

The festival of Mehregan is approaching, and today they catch meat for the first celebratory dinner. Some councillors have brought their favourite hunters, where they have one: cheetahs, and a hooded falcon, its fierce talons gripping its trainer's glove. Two of the cheetahs are hooded and leashed upon the carts, but his own sits proudly behind him on his horse, without guard or restraint, settled in her basket saddle. He reaches back his hand, and Mirza nuzzles it, letting him scratch her cheek. Her breath is hot against his neck, and she purrs in a brief, loud churr. When she tires of being scratched, she shakes her head, licks her whiskers with a broad tongue. Thick paws rest against his back, pricking slightly through his clothes; she watches the creatures of the forest with keen, hungry eyes.

As they journey through the forest, striped squirrels jump from their path to skitter up the trees, mouths full of wild pistachio nuts. Their thick tails stiffen in alarm at the noisy parade, and upon recognising the cheetahs, they squeak warnings through the branches. Mirza stares at them; she has had no breakfast, as is customary with a hunt, and he feels her tense with longing. He chuckles softly. "Soon," he says to her, with affection. "And a greater prize."

She seems to understand him, and lowers down from her perch, her weight shifting as she settles in the basket. The Master casts his eye upon the councillors, who are mostly quiet as the path is too narrow for pairs, and thus unsuited for conversation. Only Firuz chatters on, boasting of his falcon's grace and speed.

Mirza gives a sudden, low growl. The Master raises his hand, and the party staggers to a stop. 

"--and you would not believe..." Firuz's prattle trails off as he realises something is amiss, but has the sense not to speak to ask.

Silence, but for Mirza's low, angry snarl. All eyes scan the forest, but the Master follows Mirza's gaze. He sees nothing, nothing, and then: a movement, a shape, and then: a wolf, watching from behind a copse of saplings. The horses shift restlessly, whinny low in fear. The guards see it too, and without sound they ready spears, arrows. The hooded cheetahs strain against their leashes, alerted to the danger by Mirza's growl.

The wolf steps forward, stops again. It is alone, and young, and knows it is outmatched. At night there would be danger, with the pack out in force, but a lone, curious wolf is no threat to them. After a tense minute, it slinks away, and vanishes back into the deep woods. Mirza quiets, but remains alert. The Master lowers his hand, and they continue their ride.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

The trail leads them out of the forest and into a wide clearing. Their presence disturbs a muster of resting storks, and as one, they take flight. They group together and resume their arrow south, calling to each other with rasping whistles. They glide, catching the thermals, and vanish beyond the forest tops.

Here the trail widens, and curls lazily about the sloping hills. Trees and shrubs dot the landscape, but all is thick, long grass, waving gently in the breeze. As they reach the top of a high hill, it seems that all of this province can be seen: the mountains behind, tall and densely green; the river, its snowmelt grown muddy with silt; and down beyond the checkered farmlands, beyond the city, he perceives the faint sparkle of the Caspian Sea.

Ahead, the path splits. The lead gamekeeper looks back to the Master for confirmation, and the Master gestures right. They will take the path to the river today, to the crumbling ruins of an ancient shrine. Countless pilgrims once took this route, their feet pounding this trail into the earth, making it flat and hard as stone. Even now the grass gains no hold, as if in respect of something sacred.

The Master half-listens to the chatter of the council, freer now that the path is wide. It is idle talk, gossip and observation. He has long since grown used to its rhythms, and while he finds it useful, his mind is elsewhere today. Mehregan is coming.

The crest of another hill, and what was once a grey lump in the distance is now the ragged shape of the shrine. Time has taken much of its glory, but enough is left for his purposes. As they grow nearer, the land flattens out, worn down by millennia of spring floods, when the snowmelt surges down the riverbed, so fast it pours into the Caspian ice cold and clear. But the same floods that humbled the earth raised up the shrine, for it was built from and upon a great mass of granite that the river itself first revealed. 

The path itself becomes granite as they ride up into the shrine, the horses noisy on the stone. They reach the courtyard, and all dismount, some with great relief after the long morning ride.

"Here," says the lead keeper, and begins directing the servants. The guards split up, some remaining while the others patrol. The Master helps Mirza down from her basket, and she paws curiously at the smooth-worn stone. Despite the activity around them, she needs no leash to stay by his side.

As a servant approaches to take his stallion, the Master reaches into a saddle pouch and draws out a large purple carrot. Shabdiz is a war horse, descendant of a royal line, and one of the few brave enough to allow a cheetah on its back. Shabdiz chews the carrot up in a blink, pleased with the treat The Master pats his flank, and allows the servant to take him.

The Master closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment to prepare. He raises his face to the sun, feels the light upon it, warming his skin. He feels the stone beneath his feet, the clothes against his skin. The world spinning around the sun around the galaxy around the universe, and yet standing still. And in the corner of his mind, he feels the Doctor, his calmness and his joy and his longing reaching the Master as a soothing melody. 

Enough dallying. He opens his eyes, straightens his back, and sobers, focuses. He has work to do; indulgences will wait. 

By now the servants are already inside, readying the shrine's interior with rugs and cushions. The Master turns to the courtyard and raises his hand. "Councillors," he says, and gestures towards the temple. He waits as each councillor makes his way inside, each trailed by a personal servant. Each councillor gives a bow of respect as he passes, waiting for the Master's acceptance to continue through the towering archway. 

The Master allows them time before making his own entrance, Mirza slinking at his heels. Inside, half of the roof is long since gone, opening the temple up to a curtain of bright morning sun. But the far end of the temple is largely intact, a testament to the strength of the stone, and the devotion of the builders. In the shadows there, the councillors have settled on their cushions, a semi-circle around the short steps that lead up onto a dais, where the Sassanid priests made their prayers and sacrifices. And above the dais, figures carved into the stone, weathered but still distinct: Anahita, the water goddess; Mithra, the sun god; between them, being graced by their divine radiance, an ancient king. And hovering above them a great Simurgh, its wings spread almost to reach each side. 

Rather than pass through the semi-circle, the Master steps up upon the dais from the stairs at the side. He walks slowly across, allowing the council to watch, to wonder. He stops at the centre, beneath the carving of the holy king; he frames himself before it, and smiles down upon his audience. 

At last, he takes his place upon his cushion at the top of the steps. Mirza glides against his back, and then turns away to explore the stage. He smooths out his robes before meeting their eyes. "Gentlemen."

To this he receives another round of bows, and blessings upon his name. He so enjoys a good praising, but there is business to attend to. He holds up his hand, silencing them. The humans of this place obey so _well_.

"Before this morning's business," he begins, "I would like to tell you the story of a great and powerful man. A Sultan whose lands were wide, and his riches great. On the eve of the final day of Mehregan, he gathered to him all his closest councillors, his wisest advisors." 

The Master reaches into his robes, and draws out a leather pouch. "And to these men," he continues, opening the pouch, "he presented to them the biggest of the diamonds of his treasures." And from the pouch he pulls a diamond almost impossibly large, and cradles it in his palm. It glitters in the dimness, catching stray beams of light. "Held it out to them, as I do now."

All of the councillors stare at the diamond, entranced by its beauty and its worth. Some are more entranced that others: Firuz, of course, is a picture of open greed, but Bahram displays a tactician's hesitance, befitting a Prince and General. The Magi, Khurshid, looks between the diamond and the Master himself, in search of understanding; a search shared by Polyeides, inspecting the glittering angles with a mathematician's eye. The cleric, Shaykh Abul Fida, guards his reaction, stoic as ever, while his friend Vahid reveals too much, betraying a craving far darker than Firuz's. 

And so it is to Vahid that the Master hands the diamond. Vahid takes it, at first with utter delight, and then the suspicion of the paranoid. He pulls it close, and then holds it out as if it will bite. 

"The Sultan gave the diamond to the first of his councillors, and asked him what it was." The Master pauses, looking meaningfully at Vahid.

Vahid stares down at the diamond, uncertain of the proper response. And then he says, first stammering and then proud: "It is a wonderful diamond, surely unique in all the world! Perfect among your treasures, my Emir."

The Master gives a slow, accepting nod. "And so it was for the Sultan's diamond. And the Sultan turned to this councillor, and asked him to strike that perfect diamond with a stone and _perish_ it."

Vahid nearly gasps aloud at the thought. His hands wrap protectively around the gem. "He did such a thing?" 

Vahid speaks out of turn, but the Master ignores the transgression. "He did But the councillor refused to obey. He could not destroy such a thing of beauty." The Master plucks the diamond from Vahid's hands, and passes it to the Shaykh. He allows the Shaykh to inspect it, and then gestures for him to pass it to his neighbour. 

The Master continues his story. "But for every man it was the same. Each seeking excuse, each claiming the diamond too precious to be destroyed. And each man saw that those before him were unpunished for their actions, and believed themselves correct in their decision."

The diamond completes its course, and Firuz hands it back with obvious reluctance. The Master takes it, and holds it out once more, for all to see. "The diamond was returned to the Sultan, perfect and whole. And so the Sultan called to him his most loyal slave. A slave whose every breath was taken with devotion, and given back in love. He called this slave to him, and offered him the diamond, and once again he said: this jewel, this treasure: take a stone and _perish_ it."

"And the slave took the stone, his head bowed in humility. And without question, without hesitation, he took a stone and _smashed it down!_ " With the words, the Master flings the diamond down, into the circle where it bounces wildly before tumbling to a halt at the Master's feet. Everyone stares, even the Shaykh.

The Master leaves the diamond where it lies, and continues calmly: "The diamond was destroyed. The Sultan's wise and loyal men were horrified, and berated the slave, threatening to beat him for his impertinence, his violence against the jewel. They called him sinful for destroying the treasure of his master. And to all this, the slave had but one defence, one that left them all silent: _Oh great councillors, renowned officers: what is more worthy: the order of the Sultan, or the diamond?_ " The Master drags his gaze from one man to the next. "The order of the Sultan, or the diamond?" he repeats, clearly. 

He holds out his hand, and after a moment Vahid reluctantly picks up the diamond. He places it in the Master's hand, and seems glad to be rid of it. The Master brushes off the gem, and tucks it back into the pouch, back into the folds of his robes. He allows a few moments of silence for his message to sink in. Their reactions are as he expects, and finds them satisfying in their predictability. The more he can predict, the easier to manipulate, to control. The greater his power, the greater it can grow. 

For centuries, he never had the patience for this. The slow path of control, to truly lead and not merely seize and fail to hold. He always blamed the Doctor for his failures, but the clarity of this regeneration has let him see the truth. The journey to Prime Minster, his iron rule over Earth: that was merely practice for something far more challenging, far more subtle. Here, he does without the Archangel network, and finds loyalty as interesting as fear.

"Since my return from the wilderness," he begins, his quiet voice resounding against the stone walls, "our land has prospered. New trade has brought great wealth. Wealth has brought opportunity, and opportunity brought ideas, carried in the minds of men. Strangers to our land that we have made welcome in our cities, for their help will make our cities great." He reaches out his hand towards Polyeides, who straightens with pride. "As their representative, and as the head of our library and university, I welcome you, Polyeides of Damascus, as the newest member of this council."

Polyeides bows his head in thanks, and murmured formal welcomes are passed among the councillors. He glances to the Master for permission to speak, and the Master nods.

"Thank you, my Emir, for your great generosity to all who seek refuge in your lands. Truly, you are a beacon in these dark times. I, along with many others, was forced to flee from the House of Wisdom in Baghdad, and thought there would be no home for the knowledge of the ancients. Yet by your hand, our library is rebuilt. By your hand, generations are reunited, so that they may ever serve you, and carry out your will. _O learned brother and glorious master; may God grant you a long life, elevate your status and safeguard you against the evils of life. O master and proof of truth, may God sanctify your soul._ "

Polyeides rises to his knees, and then bows deep, pressing down against his ornate rug. Then he slides forward, and kisses the hem of the Master's robes. He stays in supplication until the Master gives the command to rise again.

"Thank you," Polyeides says, bowing his head again. "Thank you for all you have done, and for the honour you grant me in allowing me to serve amongst your wise council." One more deeper bow, and he settles down upon his rug, back once again straight. 

_Loyalty_ , the Master thinks, privately revelling in the pure and open devotion. To play the hero and have those he rescues proffer themselves wholly to his will. It is intoxicatingly good, almost as heady a pleasure as the Doctor's prayerful adoration. 

But not all of his council is so delightful. Not all are pleased at Polyeides's presence, or the existence of the immigrants he represents. It has taken time to sway the old order towards their new and glorious future, and some still greet every change with disdain. And as Polyeides represents that change, so the Shaykh stands for tradition. For the old ways, simple and lawful, and humble against the world beyond the mountains. So Vahid stands for the gentry, for the old guard of old money.

The Master finds he can respect the Shaykh, for he stands for what he believes in, and isn't entirely unwilling to learn. But Vahid is a petulant, ill-tempered bore, spoiled by his wealth, and resentful of any threat to it. It's fortunate that the council only formally meets a few times a year, or his urge to stab Vahid in the throat would get the better of him. The Master might have decided that subtler tactics are more interesting, but there are times that the blood still calls to him. The memory of drums, of old and murderous rage. He will no longer be its puppet, but yet it _sings_...

The Master shutters his eyes, so as not to betray his thoughts to the watchful councillors. When he opens them again, his expression is serene and composed. He remains in control: of this land, of its people; of the Doctor, and of himself. Control is everything, and he will do anything to keep it. There is no place for madness here.

The Shaykh is casting a restrained glare towards the proud Polyeides. He glances towards the Master and seems about to speak, when he straightens up sharply, eyes alert. A low churring sound comes from behind him, and Mirza slinks into the circle, dragging her rough fur against the Shaykh's robes. The councillors are no strangers to her, but none of them can hide their instinctive desire to run. They manage to keep their seats as Mirza completes her casual inspection of the circle; when she finishes, she ruts her cheek against the Master's leg and chirps for attention.

"Good girl," the Master murmurs, scratching under her jaw. He pets her, scratches her ear, and then down the line of her back as she arches in pleasure. Her timely entrance deserves reward. Loyalty is a delight, but fear still brings such satisfaction. When Mirza has had enough, she plops herself down at his feet, facing the circle with narrowed eyes. She is lean for the hunt, and does not hide her hunger. 

"General Bahram," the Master says, his insistent tone snapping the councillors to attention. "You may begin your report for the quarter."

Bahram pulls himself together, quick enough for a man used to greater dangers. "Your Excellency," he replies, and bows deeply. "My father sends his respects. He will be in attendance for the opening of your great minaret, in celebration of Mehregan, and will seek audience with you upon that day."

"His audience will be welcome," the Master acknowledges, giving a small bow in return. The festival will be the strengthening of many alliances, and Bahram's tribe is one that the Master particularly prizes. Daylamite fighters are the heart of his growing army, prized for their combat skills and their loyalty, and it is from them that the Master draws his personal guards. He expects to register a great gift from the Marzban as a gesture of that loyalty.

Bahram gives another bow, and begins his report. First, a simple overview of their military strength: the number and condition of their forts and castles; the strength of their standing armies and the influx of recruits. The Marzban is old, and has given his next-in-line full control of his forces--a power that Bahram wields with growing skill. Next, the field reports, minor skirmishes along the border with the Turks, nothing unexpected. 

"But continued threats from the Turks and the Caliphate compel the strengthening of our defences," Bahram concludes. 

Vahid, whose family is allied with the Caliphate, cannot take such offence. "There could be no such attack unless it is one _you_ provoke," he accuses.

"You speak out of turn," Bahram warns.

"I speak the truth!" Vahid insists, face reddening with anger. "We have been loyal to the Caliphate for more than a hundred years."

"They do not rule here," Bahram says, his own anger flaring, though contained. "They have taken power, but hold it in name alone." He turns back to the Master. "The stronger we grow, the greater a threat we will become. They will have no choice but to attack us. We must be prepared. Our mountain forts must be reinforced. Our towns grow beyond their walls, and new ones must be built."

"And by doing so, we will declare ourselves their enemies," Vahid warns.

But the Shaykh raises a warning hand to him. "No. We show loyalty to the Caliphate, but they show little to us. We are beyond their influence, and not of their kind. We must defend ourselves against all threats, and accept the consequences."

Vahid stares at the Shaykh, betrayed. "We must be _loyal_ ," he insists 

The Shaykh merely shakes his head.

The Master raises his hand, silencing them all. "Bahram," he begins. "You will be provided the funds to repair the mountain forts, and expand the protection of the towns. But I will accept no aggression towards those who we have sworn our loyalty, not least on the eve of Mehregan."

Bahram is not satisfied by this, but he accepts it. Vahid shows less grace, and the Shaykh calms him with a meaningful look that tickles the Master's curiosity. It is rare that the two of them disagree so publicly, as they are bound by family and religion. He reminds himself to investigate further.

"Firuz," the Master says, inviting him to speak.

Firuz brightens up, having been evidently bored by talk of city walls and political squabbling--although the Master is certain that most of his disinterest is an act. No salesman as canny as Firuz would ignore the importance of political squabbling. Firuz gives a broad smile, and an exaggerated bow. "Your illustrious Excellency," he says, turning on the charm. 

The Master raises an eyebrow.

"Your glorious Excellency," Firuz continues, smoothly. "In the spheres of my existence, life is wonderful. Every day brings new delights, new rewards"

The Master lowers his eyebrow. He reaches down and gives Mirza an idle yet meaningful scratch, and Firuz's eyes widen.

"But to business," Firuz says, with a nervous laugh. He reaches back and gestures to his servant, who had been waiting patiently back from the circle. The servant scurries forward and presents Firuz with a bound stack of ledgers, which Firuz then hands to the Master. "Trade figures for the past three months, all triple checked. Quadruple checked! And," he says, pulling a small book from his own pocket and handing it over, "my _personal_ report on the construction of the Caspian fleet."

"Good," the Master says, setting the books aside. "But a summary, for the council...?"

"Ah yes, of course." Firuz clears his throat. "I must invite our dear Polyeides to assist me here, as he has helped tremendously at every turn. Let me give you my personal welcome, Polyeides; it is a pleasure to have you with us at last."

"You are too kind, Firuz," Polyeides says, inclining his head. "I must thank you all again for your warm welcome. Though I work closely with some of you," he says, glancing to Firuz and Khurshid, "it is an honour to be invited as your equal."

"Continue," the Master says, tolerantly.

"I will begin with the fleet," Polyeides says, addressing the council as a whole. "The first ships have returned from their maiden voyage, and I am pleased to report the new rudder is a complete success. The second set of ships is nearly complete, and another two sets are in the stages of construction. The generosity of our Emir has allowed for rapid expansion, as we hurry to meet the increasing demand for trade goods."

"And such trade!" Firuz interrupts. "Silk and ceramics of the finest quality, and in every colour. Spices so fresh it is as if they were dried only yesterday. Fine china and delicious tea. Goods from across the continents that once we could only dream about."

"The herbs are already being put to great use at the hospitals and pharmacies that we have opened in your name," Polyeides tells the Master. "Their potency ensures that many can be healed. We also have imported scrolls and books from China, India, and Greece, not only to fill the many shelves of your library, but to provide translations and share knowledge amongst our many scholars. All of this to serve your greatness, and strengthen your people and your land."

"You do me much honour, Polyeides," the Master says, approvingly. "And yet this is not half of what you and your scholars have accomplished, is it not?"

"We have done much more," Polyeides agrees, and looks to Khurshid. "We have brought the knowledge of the building of new roads and new forms of irrigation to this land, and with it daily strive to improve the cities that have welcomed us so generously. Within a year, grain and fruits will be in abundance, and fresh water will be available in the cities. And again it is your generosity and wisdom that allows us to serve you in this way."

The Master gives a sagely nod. "This land is mine by right, by birth and by blood. I will always aid those who serve my land and my people. You serve me well, Polyeides, and are greatly welcome." He casts a glance towards Vahid and the Shaykh, but both are silent. It is difficult to argue against fresh drinking water and healing herbs, no matter the source.

"Yet you have not mentioned your greatest service to me," he continues. "Khurshid, will you speak?"

"When it is prudent," Khurshid replies, steady and knowing. "But all here know of it already. Your minaret is nearly complete. I will begin its consecration with the first dawn of Mehregan." He rests a hand on Polyeides's shoulder. "Your design has dwarfed the great Malwiya Minaret of Samarra."

Polyeides gives a modest bow. 

"The minaret will be opened to all on the great day," Khurshid continues. "Let it be a symbol of the deep bonds that hold our land as one. Let us praise good thoughts, good words, and good deeds."

Amid the murmurs of agreement, the Shaykh makes a choked sound. His face is red with fury. 

"You?!" he shouts, disbelieving. "How _dare_ you bless a holy place with your false god!" He turns to the Master. "Do you mock me? Do you build in the image of a holy mosque, only to have it blessed by that--that-- _fire-worshipper_?"

"Silence!" the Master commands, unwilling to tolerate such disrespect. He stands, and Mirza rises with a warning growl, and bares her teeth. The Shaykh goes pale, and sits back, eyes locked on Mirza's gleaming fangs.

"Never raise your voice to me," the Master says, coldly, staring down. "You insult me with your assumptions and impatience. You insult me with your greed. For it is only greed that could compel you to speak such insults. Only greed that could cloud your sight."

"No," the Shaykh whispers, but shame bows his head.

"This land has many gods," the Master tells him. "I do not bend my people to one faith, for all that matters is their faith in _me_. That they should bow to their Emir, and respect him. In all else, they may do as they please."

But the Shaykh rallies. "There is but one god, and Allah is his name," he says, daring to glare up at the Master.

"So it is written," the Master agrees, calmer now. "And I did not build to spite you, or deny his name." His eyes lose focus, as if remembering. "For when I was lost within the desert, I saw many things. Heard many voices. These voices guided me back, and gave me purpose. Gave me signs of what I was to become. And you." The Master drops to a crouch in front of the Shaykh, and speaks in awe. "You and Khurshid, you both have your own great purpose. You are part of something..." He takes a sharp breath, as if in wonder. "Something _holy_. " He closes his eyes, raising his face to the sky. "Holy..."

And then, suddenly, he snaps back, eyes once again sharp and clear. He stands tall and climbs the steps up to the dais. Mirza chirps and follows after him. She twines around his legs as he stares up at the high figures on the wall. Morning light slips through narrow windows, haloing him in the shadows. He closes his eyes, turns, and opens them again.

"There are things I have not told you," he says, gazing steadily at the circle of men. "The reasons for my return to this land, from which I was once cast out. I spoke these words to my father in his dying hours, and the time has come to share them with you, and with all my people."

The Master turns up his palms, holding them out in gentle supplication. He looks past the council, far into the distance. 

"Many of you will remember the tyranny of my father," he says, sombre. "None were spared his fury. And so, as a boy, I was cast out beyond the mountains. I was sent to die there, but did not. I became a wanderer, and saw many things, wonderful and terrible. But there was nowhere I belonged."

He brings his gaze back to the men, who watch with rapt attention. "And so I returned to the desert, where once I had been sent to die. I surrendered myself to the will of God. For days I walked, burning under the hot sun. On and on until every step was pain, until the sun seared my flesh. And still I walked."

He raises one hand to his chest, pressed above one heart. "I was dying, and yet I walked. Day and night, without rest, without sleep. My body thin and parched, my feet bare on burning sands. I walked. Until one morning, as the pale sun rose, I felt a great lightness within me. The burden of flesh, of earthly needs, was drawn from me by the burning sun." He looks up, up into the sky. "And though the air was still, though no creature of the earth or sky was with me, I heard the sound of wings, felt their wind upon me. The sun ceased to burn upon my skin, and I felt a touch upon my shoulder."

Khurshid gasps, and turns pale. "Wings," he echoes, realising. 

The Master gives a slight nod, and drops his hand. "It was then that I heard them. Strange, unearthly voices, whispers across the desert. They encircled me and entered into my soul, and consumed my senses. I was blind and deaf and dumb, but to the voices, to the great wings that shrouded me. And in my trembling I knew that they were the voices of angels, of the messengers of God."

"Blasphemy," the Shaykh whispers, shaking his head in denial. And yet he stares upon the Master with awe.

"What did they say?" Khurshid asks, eyes alight. "Please, I must know."

"They spoke without language," the Master replies, eyes distant again. He steps closer to the council, and in response they lean forward. "Every word became divine knowledge in my mind. Divine light, shining within me like the desert sun, burning me from within. A heat so strong it seemed the very earth would melt beneath my feet. And yet I did not perish."

He straightens with pride. "'Return,' they said. 'Return to the land of your birth. Come hither, humble servant of God, and submit yourself to his Will.' And I replied, though I had no voice, though my body was flame: 'I will serve. I will serve, oh Messengers.'"

He relaxes, and closes his eyes, touches his hand again to his chest. Waits 

"What did they say?" Khurshid asks, almost pleading.

"My body could not bear their reply," the Master says, letting his voice waver. "I awoke to moonlight, and prayed until the morning. I felt no hunger or thirst, and my skin no longer burned. I had been transformed, bleached pale by the light of God. As I walked from the desert, understanding formed within me, divine will written upon my soul."

And now he looks to them, eyes sharp. "God has blessed this land, and all who live upon it. It is the Will of God that I returned here. The Will of God that I lead you to glory. For here will be the advent of the Lord of Ages, and a new age of wonders. For that time is upon us, and _all_ will bear their duty in the service of his Will."

He bows his head, and moves his lips in silent prayer. He glances at the council through his lashes, and is pleased to see that they have followed his example, even the reluctant Shaykh. In the resonating space of the temple, the Master can feel the force of their worship, and it tingles down his spine, makes a low heat in his belly. Their psychic energy saturates the room, saturates the Master's body. So much power, and with so few. 

He breathes out, and artron sparks on his breath. The faint golden cloud dissipates in a moment, but Khurshid has already seen it, and looks at the Master in startled awe. Though Khurshid had warmed to the Master over the years, it is only now that he looks upon him with worship. The other councillors still had their eyes closed in prayer, and did not see.

Khurshid clutches at his chest, and stares up at the figures on the wall, that the Master so carefully posed beneath. The figure of the ancient king, blessed with divinity by the ancient gods of sun and water. Of the Simurgh, its great wings sheltering and blessing. And he closes his eyes in rapture, and speaks a sudden, loud prayer, that echoes from the walls. "Praise be to great Mazda! Worship, adoration, propitiation and praise. Praise be upon you, oh Excellency!"

The Master attempts to look humble. "I merely serve," he says, meekly. But he gives the Shaykh an expectant look, as it would not be fitting to receive the blessing of one holy man and not the other.

The Shaykh is not pleased, by the Master's story or by Khurshid's elation. But he is too politic a man to refuse. "All the praises and thanks be to Allah," he prays, simply and quietly. 

The Master nods in assent, and raises his arms wide. "Servants, bring the wine," he calls, and at the back of the temple the servants bustle into life The Master knows they will speak of what they have seen, and relies upon their gossip as much as the council's. Let his glory be echoed across the city and across the land, until all bow to him in worship.

The Master returns to his seat upon the stairs, with Mirza settling against his back. The servants arrive with trays, each bearing three rare porcelain cups, recently brought back on Firuz's ships; one is given to each councillor. Another servant brings the Master his own cup, beautifully wrought of gold and jewels. Each cup is half-full of wine, a deep reddish purple. 

The Master raises his cup. "In service of his Will."

The councillors echo his words, and each sips at the wine. Most are wary but accepting, still absorbing the Master's story and its meaning. Vahid outright refuses, until the Shaykh mutters sharply at him; they touch their cups to their lips, but do not sip. Khurshid drinks deep, draining his own.

§

The hunting party moves away from the river. When the hills lower themselves into a wide, grassy plain, they stop. The servants clear a space in the long grass, and begin preparations for lunch. The council leaves them and the cheetahs behind; the first hunt is for Firuz, and his prized falcon. 

"...a gift from the princely courts of India!" Firuz continues, barely pausing his boasting as he dismounts. "And such a proud bird, such a fine bird. Beautiful feathers, razor-sharp claws!" He laughs. "The rabbits scatter in fright at the merest glimpse!"

The Master hears a muffled snort, and turns to his left to see Bahram's disdainful expression. "No doubt he bargained it off the back of a caravan," he mutters. And then, aloud: "I hope your falcon will be able to live up to its reputation." 

"Of course, of course!" Firuz insists, proudly. "You have never seen a bird of such beauty, such strength and skill. Once it is in the air, it will at once find its prey, and snatch it up!" He accompanies this with a descriptive flailing of his arms.

Bahram slides nimbly down from his saddle, patting his horse's flank before walking over to Firuz. "That is no small boast," he says, with restrained amusement. "I have my own falcons, and none could find prey so quickly, and without assistance."

Firuz laughs. "My huntress is without peer. She will need no help, none!" He gestures impatiently, and a servant brings over the hooded falcon. The bird climbs onto Firuz's arm, her sharp talons piercing through the thin leather of his glove. Firuz tries to hide his wince. 

Bahram looks around for the other councillors, but they are all far enough to be out of earshot. He lowers his voice, presuming that the Master will not hear them. But his low murmur is loud enough for a Time Lord to hear.

"Shall we wager on it?" Bahram offers. "Let us say... if your falcon can catch its prey--any prey--within ten minutes, with no assistance... you may have your choice of any one of my cheetahs. They are all excellent hunters, I assure you."

Firuz hesitates. "And if she fails?"

"Well," Bahram says, looking speculative. "An equal treasure, to a strong and skilful hunter... the dagger at your waist, yes?"

Firuz puts a hand protectively over the dagger, then stubbornly holds it up A fine hunting dagger, polished steel with a curved blade. The handle is decorated with rich engravings, and embedded with rubies. Firuz gives it a longing look, and then stares proudly at Bahram.

"I accept," Firuz says, shoves the dagger back into its hilt, and smiles. "And I will be certain to choose the finest of your cheetahs." He holds out his unburdened hand; Bahram shakes it, then steps back to watch.

Firuz strokes lightly down the falcon's neck. "Good girl," he murmurs, cooing. "Go find one of those nice, tasty rabbits, eh? Nummy nummy."

Bahram covers his mouth with his hand, so as not to laugh.

Firuz straightens up, and sticks his arm out straight as a rod. With a flourish, he tugs off the blinding cap, and throws the falcon into the air. Whatever her provenance, she is a beautiful bird, and takes swiftly to the sky Her wings catch a strong gust, and she rides them up to the thermals, where she begins a long circle in search of prey.

And circles. And circles.

Bahram clears his throat.

"It has not yet been a minute!" Firuz says, testily.

"I will wait," Bahram says, and smiles placidly.

They wait. The Master finally dismounts, and walks a bit to stretch his legs. Mirza leans over the edge of her riding basket, and churrs for attention 

"Stay," the Master tells her, and gives her a scratch under her chin. "I will not go far."

She gives him a doe-eyed stare, then yawns and curls down for a nap. Her ear twitches away a fly.

The Master gives a nod to the servant at Shabdiz's head, and strolls out through the long grass. They are safe here; the land stretches out for miles around them, with nowhere for anything larger than a rabbit to hide. He glances up at the falcon as he circles the camp, and listens in on the private conversations within. He keeps a wide berth, and the councillors, unsuspecting, do not hush their voices.

§

"Blasphemy!" Vahid's mouth curls as he gives a hushed snarl. "I do not understand how you can tolerate it. We cannot let this sacrilege continue. That arrogant _dog_ \--" He spits upon the ground.

"Guard your tongue," the Shaykh chides, tightly.

"That is what you always say," Vahid says, clearly annoyed. "'Be silent, Vahid. Be patient, Vahid.' Bah! Our _glorious_ Emir praises heathen gods and fills our cups with wine!"

"He is a fool," the Shaykh replies. "But he is not stupid. You have never had the patience for politics. Your father--"

Vahid's face sours even further. "I am not my father!"

The Shaykh quirks a tiny, condescending smile. "That is evident."

Vahid goes very quiet, no doubt to keep himself from exploding with outrage The Shaykh gives him a little time to stew, and then speaks.

"His own ambition will destroy him. With his words today, it will be perhaps sooner than we had hoped."

"The longer we wait, the more of those _people_ he invites into our cities," Vahid hisses. "Degenerate heathens, all of them. Following the example of his _licentious_ behaviour."

"Yes, yes," the Shaykh says, impatiently. "The degenerate heathens who are digging a canal through your pasture."

Vahid crosses his arms. "I was not asked for permission."

The Shaykh shakes his head. "Enough of your pride. It swells as great as a palace, yet the smallest thorn..."

Vahid's face reddens with anger, but he seems to have enough wisdom in him not to speak. He hunches petulantly, and mutters, "Quiet. I am watching the hunt."

When the Shaykh also goes silent, another voice becomes apparent, carried from further winds. The Master walks towards it, and is caught by a strong gust that whips through his clothes. Ahead, he sees Khurshid, reaching after his cap as it flies from his head. Polyeides snatches it from the air, and returns it to Khurshid.

"Thank you," Khurshid says, bowing his head, securing his hat with one hand He looks up into the sky, squinting at the distant, circling figure of the falcon. "Perhaps this is not a good day for our friend. With such a wind, she will never see the rabbits!" He turns to Polyeides, grinning. "Or perhaps it is a good day for the rabbits, eh?"

"Not for us, if it means we have nothing to eat," Polyeides replies.

"Ha! Always so practical. This is _no_ time to be practical." Khurshid spreads his arms wide. "This is a time to feel the great rush of wings above your head!"

A fresh gust lifts Khurshid's hat again, but Polyeides's hand is quick. This time he doesn't bother to hand it back. 

"All this from one small cup of wine?" Polyeides asks, bemused. 

Khurshid glances towards him, and then drops his arms, crossing them. "I do not expect mockery from you," he scolds, gently.

"I apologise," Polyeides says, and hands him back his hat. 

Khurshid accepts both apology and hat, and composes himself. "You will forgive an old man's joy. I have grown too practical myself, about the world, about God. Yet today I saw..." He looks into Polyeides's eyes. "In one moment, I saw... _majesty_." He drops his eyes. "I wish you had but seen!"

"I wish it, too," Polyeides says. "But it seems the moment was not for me."

"Another will come," Khurshid says, certain. He looks into the distance. "I am certain of it."

"I must rely upon more earthly signs." Polyeides looks around, and sees the Master in the distance. "Nearly three years, and still I do not know what to make of him. Or his slave."

"That dervish is no slave," Khurshid says, turning back to Polyeides. "Some strange grace is upon him."

"The same strange grace as his master?" Polyeides rubs his chin. "Perhaps his story is true. I will not question so generous a man without cause. One man can do good, but a leader can make all men great."

"A good leader carries God within him," Khurshid replies. "He pours God's love into every offered cup."

"I have never known you to speak this way," Polyeides says, soberly. "You cautioned me when my gratitude clouded my sight. 'Always question, always learn.' Yet one moment of majesty--"

"I have followed God all of my life," Khurshid says, sharper now. "I do not know how many times I have lost my faith, only to find it anew." He presses his hand to his chest. "I have felt God in my heart, seen his signs upon the streets. Yet until today, I had never seen the light I have sought for so long. I know that God's light is within him. I do not know why he was chosen to bear this gift. Yet I cannot deny it, cannot close my eyes. To blind myself now would be..." He breaks, and looks up into the sky. "The falcon hears the call, and must obey."

§

"Will that fool's bird ever dive?" 

Vahid's grumble draws the Master's attention back. Where Khurshid gazed in awe, Vahid glares and taps his foot. When the Shaykh remains silent, Vahid looks around for something else to complain about. He sees Polyeides and Khurshid, and his frown deepens.

"They are up to something. I am certain of it." He scowls at the pair. "That outsider seeks to ruin me! Already he conspires with Firuz to steal away my trade, and sends strangers to tear up my land. Now he plots with that fire-worshipper!" He turns accusingly to the Shaykh. "And you continue to allow it! You must declare their actions to be immoral."

"I must?" replies the Shaykh, annoyed.

"Do not play the innocent," Vahid sneers. "As a boy I watched you smite my father's enemies. Together you were the true power of the Emir. Yet now old age has withered you."

The Shaykh does not flinch. "Your father understood what was necessary. He did not strike at every fly."

"Yet now they bite, and you stand like a dumb camel in the heat."

The Shaykh straightens, angered. Yet when he speaks, his voice is hushed. "I should strike you for such insolence."

"I am no longer a boy," Vahid replies, with equal tone. "And it is the Emir's words that have opened my eyes to our fate. If we do not act soon, he will destroy us."

The Shaykh falters. "He may," he admits. "His words were more than daring." He shakes his head. "No. We must wait, and seek the truth of his actions. It is still too soon."

Vahid gives a level stare. "I know their truth, and fear it is already too late."

The Shaykh looks out at the horizon. "And if you are wrong? If angels have spoken to him?"

"Dreams. Fantasies. Or if he does not lie, the whispering of devils and djinn upon a weakened mind. All the more reason he must be stopped."

The Shaykh closes his eyes. "Not yet," he says, and with that ends the conversation.

The Master watches them with an even gaze. He has listened to Vahid's mutterings many times before. He is a spoiled brat who seeks to steal back his toys. But that does not make him harmless. The Master considers the Shaykh to be the greater threat, but the disagreement between them will restrain them both, for now. Vahid is already on the path to his own destruction. To complete it, he has only to further isolate Vahid, and to mollify the Shaykh Their bond will split, and Vahid's power will crumble into dust. The Master smiles to himself, and feels a warm curl of anticipation of his enemy's fall.

Down below, Firuz glares stubbornly at his circling falcon. Bahram waits beside him with the patience of the victor, not even looking at the dagger that he almost certainly will claim. Firuz's time is running out, and soon the servants will be called upon to beat the bushes, and scare the prey out into the open.

The Master dismisses his enemies from his thoughts, and thinks upon Khurshid. He will be rewarded generously for his newfound devotion, after years of mixed loyalties. His conversion is a true victory, and an even greater satisfaction. Even now, the Master can feel waves of psychic energy, calmer than the charge at the temple ruins, but far more potent. He takes a few steps closer to the pair, and listens. Yet to his surprise, is not his own name that he hears.

"...he is unlike any dervish I have ever met," says Polyeides, thoughtfully "An ascetic with such knowledge of the sciences?"

"Worship of God through the understanding of his Creation," Khurshid replies. "God's hand is everywhere, if we but look. The dervish sees."

"He must have been an educated man, before his calling found him. Yet I would have thought such a polymath would be well-known to such circles. I have worked with him many times in the construction of the minaret, and he speaks in revelations! I have learned more from his mutterings than in all my studies. And this man of incredible knowledge spends his nights at the foot of the Emir's bed!"

"It is only recently that I have found his company," Khurshid says, and gives a short laugh. "At first I was jealous of his certainty. He stands in constant awe of God's presence, and must feel such joy, such wonder. And now I have had a taste of it, and I am jealous all over again. It is as if his every breath out is a prayer of devotion, and when he breathes in, it is not air but God's love that fills him."

Polyeides shakes his head. "He was far from worshipful when I first met him It was not long after we began the minaret foundation, that the Emir found him. A slave sold for a pittance in a common market. There were many rumours then, of who he truly was, why the Emir sought him for so long, and why such a disobedient man would be made the Emir's slave."

"I was in Tabriz when he arrived," Khurshid says, slowly. "But by the time I returned, he was hardly disobedient. When I met with the Emir, the dervish was calm by his side."

"He was transformed," Polyeides says. "No one knows how, or why. As the minaret rose high, so did his devotion. His agitation became tranquility, his pain became yearning. Perhaps..." He shakes his head, smiling. "I thought it simple rumour, but now..."

"Speak," Khurshid urges, eagerly.

"The guards say that he bows to the Emir, not in respect but in holy worship. They say that in the darkness of the night, they have seen..." Polyeides pauses, suddenly hesitant. "Some nights, they have seen a golden shimmer rise into the sky, from the Emir's rooms."

Khurshid rests his hands over his heart. "It is God that changed him. It is God that fills him with golden light. That opens his eyes so that he may see God's presence."

"I do not know," Polyeides says, brow furrowed. "If you are right... If it is not merely the trick of firelight upon tired eyes..."

"I did not see firelight," Khurshid says, with utter certainty. 

Polyeides rubs at his neck, and stares up into the sky. "Then these are wondrous times, my friend."

"Do not tremble," Khurshid says, resting his hand on Polyeides' back. "Or tremble only in joy. And wait with me, and open your heart to what comes."

"I will try to understand," Polyeides says, humbly. "It is all I can do."

The Master stifles a groan, as he feels a fresh spike of energy from them. He feels the tingle in his spine, the heat in his belly, and welcomes it, soaks up the energy like a sponge. It makes the artron in his blood fizz with power, and then settle again. He breathes out, knowing that in this daylight, no golden shimmer will be seen. He must be careful.

"Enough," Bahram says. "I have been more than generous, and yet your falcon has yet to even attempt a strike." He holds out his hand. "My dagger, if you please."

Firuz scowls; he is not a man who likes to lose. He pulls the dagger from his belt and stares at it with longing sorrow. "Goodbye, my darling," he says, and kisses the handle once. He closes his eyes as he hands it over, and then turns away in disgust at his defeat. "Send in the beaters," he grumbles, ordering the servants in to scare the rabbits from the long grass. 

Bahram slips the dagger onto his own belt, with a quietly smug smile. 

The servants quickly chase out several rabbits, and it is the work of moments for the falcon to strike. She swoops down with fearsome claws, and hurries back to her master with the heavy weight of the trembling rabbit. Firuz automatically reaches for his dagger, and his hand clenches to a fist when it is not there.

"Slaughter it," he commands the servants. They obey, speaking the required prayer before delivering a quick, deep slice through its neck. The rabbit is dead in an instant.

§

"War is inevitable," Bahram declares, as his servants prepare his cheetah for its hunt. "The richer and more powerful we become, the greater the prize to the conqueror. And the Caliphate, if it is not compelled by simple greed, will not tolerate so close a rival power."

"Rivals!" Vahid scowls. "We must not make themselves their enemy. We must cooperate, preserve our union."

"Weaken ourselves so that we may prostrate lower to those _swine_?" Bahram gives a scornful laugh. "They cannot even rule themselves, they are too busy stabbing each other in the back. This is our chance, to rise up and be proud!"

"We should not hasten towards battle," Khurshid says. 

"Nor should we live in fear," Firuz replies, supporting Bahram despite the sting of his lost bet. "Without soldiers and weapons, my ships would be easy prey. We must protect ourselves."

"We protect from without, yet we weaken from within," the Shaykh says, darkly. 

Polyeides frowns at this. "The strength and minds of those 'threats' have helped give your country its strength," he says, with barely restrained anger.

"Gentlemen," the Master interrupts, raising a hand. "This is a day for celebration and for hunting. The old arguments will wait."

"Of course, my Emir," Bahram says, bowing his head in apology. The others quickly follow suit, though a few glares are exchanged before civility is feigned.

Vahid leans close to Bahram. "We will see if your cheetah is a match for mine. She brought down a fine buck today."

"Your servants trained her well," Bahram replies, the lightness of his tone belying the insult. He kneels down and scratches behind his cheetah's ear. "As I have trained mine."

Vahid's mouth thins, and his eyes narrow, but one glance toward the Emir and he knows not to rise to the bait. He crosses his arms with a huff and steps back. "We shall see," he mutters.

Mirza churrs and coils around the Master's legs. He leans down to comply with her demands, and gives her scritches, too.

"Good girl," the Master praises, stroking her rough fur. "Just a little longer." He steps back from the group, guiding Mirza away, so as not to distract Bahram's cheetah. He rests on one knee beside her, and strokes and praises her, while the hunt begins.

The Shaykh walks over to him, and bows. "My Emir, I beg a private audience."

The Master rises to his feet, and Mirza looks directly at the Shaykh. He instinctively takes a half-step back. She snuffs, then turns away, allowing his presence.

"Walk with me, then," the Master says, and turns away, with Mirza trotting alongside. 

The Shaykh hurries to match his stride. "Thank you," he says, giving a short bow. He purses his lips.

After they are a distance away from the others, the Master clears his throat. "Did you wish to offer counsel?"

"I wish to warn you," the Shaykh says, sharply. He shuts his mouth quickly, as if regretting his harshness. He holds up his hand. "I apologise, my Emir, but I have great concerns."

"Then I will hear them," the Master replies, head tilted to listen.

The Shaykh exhales loudly, and his brow knits as he gathers his thoughts. "There is great unrest within your lands. In the souls of your people."

The Master frowns. "Tell me what troubles them, and I will seek its remedy."

The Shaykh looks to him. "And if the remedy is bitter to your tongue?"

The Master stops, and places a hand on the Shaykh's shoulder. "Do not offer me evasions."

The wind rises again, rippling through their clothing, making the long grass run in waves. The Shaykh straightens his back. "Every day, I tend to the people of this land. I hear their hopes, their fears. And they are afraid. Afraid of the lost son who rules them. Afraid of God's wrath."

"They have nothing to fear," the Master replies, his voice calm, yet unyielding.

"They fear change," the Shaykh says, insistent. "They fear strangers in their midst. They fear attack from the many powers beyond our mountains. They fear for their children's future, and do not understand why. They do not understand _you_."

The Master drops his hand. The Shaykh's own fear, his anger and uncertainty, cut through the joyful glow of Khurshid's belief. "Then you must help them. The truth may frighten them further."

The Shaykh looks hard upon him, as if to see into his soul. "Is it the truth? For I will not tell them lies."

The Master rests his hand upon his chest. "There are two hearts within my breast," he says, solemnly. "For God has placed his own heart beside mine." He stretches his arm out, gesturing towards the cities beyond. "The people of this land, of _our_ land--every day, I feel their _joy_. Their pride in themselves, in each other. They do not fear me. It is your own fear that you see within them."

The Shaykh flinches, but stands his ground. "I fear no man. And neither will the Caliphate, when they hear of your _truth_. You tread in the footsteps of Hallaj, who called himself God's truth as they cut him into pieces"

The Master's eyes darken. "You dare to threaten me?"

The Shaykh turns away, grasping at his robes. "No, _no_ , I do not..." He turns back. "Yes, it is my fear. My fear that in seeking to raise up your people, you bring upon them their destruction. The Caliphate will show no mercy, and we cannot defend against their armies."

The Master smiles, as dark as his eyes. "Let them come. They will not harm us."

"How?" The Shaykh asks, an edge of desperation in his voice. "We do not have the men. We do not have the arms. How?"

The Master hushes him. "Trust in me. Or if you cannot, trust in God."

The Shaykh looks at him with disbelief, but before he can reply, there is a commotion from the hunting party. Bahram's cheetah has brought down a large doe, and holds the trembling gazelle by her neck. Bahram is striding towards them, Firuz's knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the sun. He pauses for a quick prayer, and then with a sudden slice it is over. Blood reddens the cheetah's fur as it pours from the gaping wound in the gazelle's neck.

As the Master walks away, he hears the Shaykh whisper to himself: "I have no choice. God forgive me, God forgive me."

 _You would do better to beg to me_ , the Master thinks, as he strides towards the waiting Mirza. Her mouth drips with hunger at the sight of the dead gazelle. She is at her most dangerous at moments such as these, and no one else dares approach her, not even the trainers. The Master himself has felt the force of her jaws, the sharp cruelty of her claws. He does not touch her, but calls her to follow him. 

The gazelle is hauled away by servants, and the hunting party moves to a fresh location, away from the scent of blood. The Master leads as Mirza slouches through the grass, and the Shaykh trails behind, lost in his own thoughts. 

The Master has no interest in introspection. Mirza's mind is full of the faint scent of gazelle, the deep, instinctive lust for the kill. These mingle at the edges of the Master's own mind, making his mouth water. He tightens down on the mental link between them, the one he created when she was a mewling kit, but does not close it. He wants to feel what she feels, to know the chase, the catch, the feel of life pulsing between his teeth. 

He glances behind him, at Vahid, at the Shaykh. He thought to be kind, but no, no. He licks his teeth, his breathing quick and hot against his tongue. He will not forgive them. He will not have mercy upon their wretched souls 

Mirza quickens her pace, and the Master raises his hand. The others hang back, only the Master following behind her. He leaves a safe distance, so as not to betray her presence to her prey. His motions mirror hers; he crouches as she crouches, peers where she peers. Together they sniff the air, and the hair on their necks bristles. 

The wind calms. The air is suddenly still, the grass unmoving. The small herd grazes unaware. Mirza needs no servants to beat the grass, to herd her prey. The Master glances back again to the distant crowd, mouth curled in a predator's smile. Most see only the simplicity of the hunt. Firuz has eyes only for Mirza, gazing at her with envy and longing for such a magnificent beast. Vahid sulks, glaring angrily into the distance. But the Shaykh stares, and is afraid. 

The Master meets his eyes, and shows his teeth.

The wind rises again, stirring the grass around them. Some motion draws the eye of a buck, and he springs up in fear. The moment is upon them: the pack begins to run, and Mirza takes off after them, and chooses her prey. The crowd is forgotten as Mirza's senses fill the Master's mind, and he feels the racing of her heart, the muscles burning in her legs as she bounds in impossibly long strides. He closes his eyes, and sees the kicking legs of the gazelle, the flapping white tail. The horns of a proud buck rise and fall as they race across the low hills, dry grass snapping under hoof and paw. 

Five seconds. Six, seven. A wall of throny shrubs, and the gazelle breaks to the right, kicking up dirt as his hooves tear into the earth. Inch by inch, Mirza closes the gap between them, moving away from the deadly hooves as she draws near. The gazelle is frantic with fear, eyes wide, tongue lolling from its mouth. Twelve seconds. Thirteen. Fourteen. Closer, closer, and then an unexpected dip in the grassy hill. The gazelle stumbles, falls. Mirza leaps, claws spread, jaws wide.

The Master shuts his jaw with a click, the ghostly feel of fur and hide against his tongue. He opens his eyes and stands, and takes long, fast strides towards where they lay. He takes his hunting knife by the hilt, and draws it from its sheath. The copper tang of blood pools in his mouth, and a growl curls from his throat. Her hunger is strong, so strong. 

_Wait for me_ , he tells her, holding her back. He feels her bristle, and then calm, just enough to keep from tearing out the animal's throat. 

The buck is trembling upon the flattened grass. He kicks in helpless desperation as Mirza's jaws clamp tight upon his neck, strangling him. She clings to him, holding him as the light slowly fades from his eyes. The Master wastes no time; he kneels beside her, and holds the beast's neck with her, and jabs the blade deep. He pulls, slicing through the thick muscle, the tendons. Blood gushes out, splashing hot over his arm, soaking into his clothes He can taste the blood that pours into Mirza's mouth, feels her tongue lapping at the short, rough fur of the dying buck's neck. The buck shudders and is still, and at last he is released.

The Master turns to Mirza, and her head is soaked with blood, her eyes wild Her broad tongue laps at her whiskers, but blood will not be enough. The Master grabs at one of the buck's legs and hauls it over, pinning it back with his foot. The white underbelly bared, he stabs, pulls, and leaps back as the steaming gore of its insides slithers out onto the ground. He kicks them away with his foot, and Mirza leaps upon them, reddening her paws as she claws at an intestine.

 _Wait_ , the Master tells her, and reaches inside the carcass with his knife. Practice tells him where to go, and he reaches in with his other hand and grabs the heart. His breath catches as it beats one last time, and then is still within his grasp. He grits his teeth and _cuts_.

Mirza slides up against him, in expectation of her prize. He eases out the heart, and she growls and churrs with delight. _Now_ , he tells her, and she bites into the heart, taking off great hunks of it as he holds it in his hand. He pets her rough fur, praising her, and at last he eases from her mind. 

The servants approach, halting at the bloody sight. The Master waves for them to come near. He feeds Mirza the last of the heart, and stands, wiping his hands on his already ruined clothes. Warm wetness trickles down his face, and he wipes at the splashes of blood.

"Time for a bath," he mutters, plucking at his coat. He'd rather liked that coat. One of the servants offers him a wet cloth, and he wipes his hands and face clean with it. He tosses it back. "Finish this," he tells them, nodding towards the carcass.

Mirza is busy cleaning her paws. He snaps his fingers, and she trots after him, as he walks back to the others. He can feel her satisfaction, and her warm belly, but his own is empty, and his hunger unabated. 

He reaches the hunting party, blood drying on his clothes. "Good hunting, gentlemen. Let us return." The councillors stare, but the Master walks on.

 _Ushaq_ , he thinks, feeling for the Doctor's mind, across the distance He can feel the Doctor's longing, as he works alone at the top of the minaret. The Master himself longs for the day he can finally catch his prey, can end this interminable waiting. _Soon_ , he reminds himself. _Mehregan is coming._

§


	10. Chapter 10

The Master is home. The servants arrive to take away the filth of the day: the heavy dust of long rides, the dry, brown stains of blood. He holds still as his turban is unwound, his coat undone, his clothes taken and folded with care, despite their state. Naked, he tells the servants to leave, and forbids all interruptions until the morning. He is eager for solitude.

He walks into the steam room, and the heat is instantly heavy upon him. He sits upon smooth marble and leans back against the wall, and at last he can begin to relax. Not to play the Emir, or the patient lover, but simply to be. There are star-shaped windows carved into the ceiling, and the reddening sunset illuminates the steam into hazy fire. 

He looks down at himself. There are clouds of grime at his wrists and neck, from the gaps in his clothes, and trails of grime where his sweat carried it. Fresh sweat trails down his face and stings his eyes, and he wipes it away; his hand comes back smeared. He longs to sink himself into the water, to be clean, to be cool.

He sits in the steam, and brushes the sweat from his eyes.

He should be in a better mood than he is. The day was full of victories, with the promise of many more. But he is tired: from the hunt, from the politics, from the emptiness left behind after the flush of psychic energy. He is tired, and is glad to let the heat sink into his bones, glad to let the steam flush his skin. But it is his mind that will not let him rest. It aches and buzzes, and craves what it does not have.

 _Quiet_ , he tells it. 

He gazes into the drifting steam. The slightest breeze and it wafts, curls and fades and reforms. A lithe curve makes him think of Mirza, whom he left to sprawl lazily in the garden, her belly full of gazelle meat. He smiles a little at her contentment, and finds himself at last beginning to relax. Even without her, he is safe here, in the heart of his palace. 

At last he pushes himself up, and walks out of the steam room to wash. A basin, washcloths, and toiletries have been set out for him, and he lathers himself and rinses off, inside and out. The blood and dirt and sweat are washed away, leaving his skin warm and clean and pink. He brushes out his hair, shaves away the stubble from his face.

The pool is not large enough to dive in, or long enough for laps. But it is perfect for floating. He lets the warm, still water carry him. Under the surface, he hears only his breathing, his heartsbeat. He sighs out, breathes in, and at last feels only as himself. He is the Master, as he has been since he chose his name. No matter what he pretends, no matter what names he takes. He misses the sound of it on the lips of others. On the lips of the Doctor, as he begs, as he pleads, as he sighs, demands, curses, cries. The Master kicks a little at the water, propelling himself along. He turns and dives down, swimming along the bottom of the shallow pool. Around and around, for long minutes until he finally comes up for air.

He has been so patient, and he is tired of patience. 

He pushes himself out of the water, out of the pool. He stands dripping in the steam, and roughly wipes the water from his face. He feels suddenly coiled, taut as the stalking Mirza, her prey so close, so vulnerable. He breathes deep, deep, scenting the air, and can smell the Doctor nearby. Returned from his toils in the minaret, rich with sweat and dust and paint. The scent of his obedience, his submission to worship. Soon that scent will fade, washed away by servants with soaps and perfumed oils. The Master pictures him now: the Doctor kneeling on the tiled floor, his body touched by rough hands, his clothing stripped away. Even after all this time, the Doctor will be modest, will blush at the intimacy of their touch, at the insistence of it. He will bite his lip and try so hard not to squirm.

The Master leans one hand against the wall, and sniffs, sniffs. So close, just a room between them. He hears water in the distance, murmurs of voices He pictures the removal of the Doctor’s collar by the servants, the white stripe against tanned skin. His mouth waters with the need to taste that strip of skin, always hidden except in these moments. It will be so tender, so sweet. A feast, just there, begging to be devoured. The Master gives a soft groan, and rests a hand low on his belly. 

The sounds grow quiet, and the Master leans closer to the wall, straining to hear. Every slosh of water, every clink of metal or glass. And then, oh, oh: the soft whimpers of the Doctor as he is filled for his cleansing. The tiles are cool against his heated skin as the Master presses flat against them, listening, listening, for every pained noise, every gasp. At last he allows himself to feel the Doctor's mind, and it makes the Master breathe in sharply. The familiarity of the pain, the cramps, but far more than that. He suffers for his _effendim_ , and all his pain is welcomed, it is _joy_.

The Master stumbles back from the wall, breaking the link. It is too much to feel, too much what he wants. It is exactly what he dreamt of, all those years ago, when he formulated his plan. When he tasted the Doctor's submission and found it _good_. He knew then that he would do anything to have it, to keep it. He would build an empire, a true empire, not one built on the fragility of block-transfer computations or paradoxes. Anything false and the Doctor would know, any weak point, and the Doctor would find it, and shatter it with a single touch. No, he knew then that if he truly wanted to claim his prize, he would have to earn it.

And surely, surely he has. The culmination of his plans at last upon him, years of work all building up to this moment. The Doctor so ripe, so ready to be taken, so _willing_. Surely this is his perfection. To take that first bite, impossibly sweet--his mouth should _water_.

But his mouth is dry.

His fists clench, and his lip curls. He has indulged so much that his tongue should be numb to sweetness. But nothing satisfies him, nothing is enough A small, patient fear whispers to him: _even the Doctor will not be enough. Not this Doctor. This Doctor could never be real._

The Master squeezes his eyes shut, bares his teeth, and swallows a snarl. _No_. He will not do this. He will not do what he has always done, over and over and over. He will not be what he was, that self-inflicted Tantalus, straining for a victory he will never allow himself to achieve. He will not spend years of his life in patient work, planning and scheming and building some elaborate design that will falter the moment it threatens to become real. 

He will not _doubt_. Every night, he looks into the Doctor's eyes and sees no pretence, no trickery. Every night, he slips into the Doctor's dreams, and every night he is welcomed. There is love, there is _love_ , and he will not _doubt_.

He opens his eyes. Relaxes his jaw, and breathes, and lets his shoulders fall. Calm. He must be calm. The moment will come, and until then, until then..

He turns his back on the pool, on the distant sounds of the Doctor's bath. He leaves the sweltering steam and finds the next room, cool tiles under his feet, crisp air clearing his senses. He shivers, and at last reaches for a towel. He dries quickly, and pulls a silk robe close around himself.

In the mornings, after the Doctor has left for the day, there are servants here, expert in their application of oils and creams. But in the evening, he prefers to do the work himself. He takes a few grapes from the bowl of fruit, and chews on them as he selects from the small jars and pots. It is here, as he prepares himself to join the Doctor for the night; it is here that he feels the most as a player, preparing for his role. _Always the star, of course_ , he thinks, and smiles at his reflection.

At times he has been most himself when disguised. Over the centuries he has played many parts, each intended for a singular audience. To change his name, to change his face, to create himself anew for every challenge: above all, the preparation is his joy. The _anticipation_ of the chase, the capture. Picturing it in his mind in countless variations. Imagining the Doctor's reaction: the defiance, the begging, the _screams_. Sometimes in pleasure, but mostly pain, as his anger swelled and soured. 

But there is no pain in his thoughts tonight, and he needs little disguise for this role. He stands again, and removes his robe. He scoops a pale cream from a jar, and works it into his skin, until his body gleams dully in the lamplight. To the scent of roses and sandalwood, he adds a dab of musk, and then slips the robe back around his shoulders. He leans close to the mirror, and darkens his eyes with a small kohl stick. 

He looks at his reflection as he presses his hand to his chest. His skin is warm and soft, and he touches it as he knows the Doctor will want to touch it. The Doctor will stare at him with such beautiful desire, and yet again the Master will deny him. Not even the slightest touch will he be allowed. Tonight the Doctor will curl upon the floor, his chest aching with longing, and his dreams will be exquisite with need.

The Master bares his neck, which so invites the Doctor's kisses, and smiles languidly into the mirror. A touch of rouge to his cheeks, or to his lips? He knows that the sight will twist in the Doctor's hearts. But the Master declines; he will be merciful, after the torment of the night before. 

Satisfied, he rings the bell, and his servants enter, arms full with finery Soon his costume will be complete, and he will make his entrance. Effendim will enter, and ushaq shall kneel at his feet.

§

He enters his rooms as the servants finish their tasks. They cluster at the entrance, ready to obey should their Emir require it. But the room is clean and ordered, the lamps lit, the braziers filled, and with a gesture he sends them away. They bow and murmur his name, and close the doors behind them with a quiet thud.

Mirza is nowhere to be seen, and he walks out into the garden to find her. She is lazing in her favourite spot, nearly hidden beneath a shady cypress. When he approaches, she opens her eyes to sleepy slits, and licks her whiskers with contentment. He crouches down and pets her, and scratches behind her ears.

"Dinnertime," he tells her, smiling softly. "Will you join us?"

Mirza displays none of her usual enthusiasm, and simply rolls over onto her back and snuffs at him. She is still too full of gazelle. He rubs her belly obediently, and she begins to churr. 

A soft breeze stirs the leaves around them, and carries a telling chill. As autumn creeps, the nights grow longer, colder. The reddened sunset is fading. 

"There is a chill in the air tonight. I must close up the room. Come inside"

But Mirza merely closes her eyes, and turns back onto her side. Last autumn she was the same, often preferring the cool night to the smoky warmth of the braziers. When it is cold enough, she will leave the garden, and then insist her way into his bed to steal his warmth. 

She has already begun to doze again, and so he leaves her. The breeze picks up as he leaves the garden, making him shiver and hasten his step. He closes the heavy oak doors, and then moves to the windows. He closes the shutters over each lattice window, and draws the curtains. His fingers trace over their fine embroideries; they were made by harem slaves, and by servants, and yet each bears a lingering trace of psychic energy. It always surprises him, to feel such adoration, such worship, without the taint of fear. A soft whisper against his mind, so strange.

He lights some of the braziers, and each flickering light adds its heat. He looks into the flame, into the burning embers, and then turns away. He feels tugged at by old ghosts, old memories. The past is done, and let it burn with the coals.

Already the room begins to warm. He removes his heavy robe, stripping down to his shirt and shalwars, and trades it for one of thin, deep blue silk. As he straightens his clothes, he thinks of the Doctor, who will soon arrive in only his loincloth. How his oiled skin will glow in the flickering light. With Mirza's rare absence, they will be truly alone together, and anticipation curls within him. His hand slides down the silk, and he allows himself the briefest indulgence, imagining the Doctor's hand upon him. Soon this interminable wait will be over. Soon the moment will come, and after, after, no more restraint, no more denial. Oh, he will _take_.

He groans, and curls his hand into a fist, dropping it to his side. Not yet, not _yet_. He must keep control, or the moment may be lost. And this time, this time, he will _not_ lose. He is the _Master_. He stares at his reflection, and straightens his back, and steels his resolve. 

It is the Doctor who will yearn, who will need so unbearably. It is the Doctor who will kneel and bow and offer himself without shame. Last night, oh, the Doctor's need was so sharp, so keen, almost unbearably rich. The temptation was so great it nearly broke the Master's control. But through his desperation, the Doctor obeyed, and the Master knows he must taste that obedience again. Must draw out his _ushaq_ , and see how far his _effendim_ can draw his bow.

A quiet knock, and the Master composes himself. He opens the door, and Massoud gives a polite bow. "He is ready, my Emir."

"Good," the Master replies. "Wait two minutes, and then bring him in."

Massoud bows again, and obeys. 

The Master considers himself once more in the mirror. He purses his lips, and leans towards the polished silver. He brushes a few locks of hair out from under the turban, and draws a smudge across the kohl at his eyes. He straightens, and loosens the laces of his shirt, letting the collar fall open. He drags one finger down his throat, and smiles darkly at his reflection. Yes, that should draw the Doctor's eye.

He takes his usual seat, in direct sight of the door, and flicks open a book to pretend to read. A casual slouch, body turned to show the line of his thigh, robe open to display the curve of his crotch beneath the silk shalwars. Not entirely subtle, but simple enough to be thought unintentional. He struggles not to smile in his anticipation.

He does not look up when Massoud returns, or when the Doctor is brought inside and left kneeling on the floor. Out of the corner of his vision, he sees the Doctor's confusion as he scans the room for Mirza. He falters, then adapts, and sinks down, down, pressing himself so beautifully against the floor, in utter supplication. The Master's breath catches, just for a moment, and he covers it with the turn of a page. He stares at the book, but sees only the Doctor's bowed head, his arched back. 

For a full minute, he pretends to read, his eyes blind upon the pages. Mirza's absence in the proceedings makes him falter, and he feels strangely bare, exposed. He is not afraid, because there is nothing to be afraid of. The Doctor is supplicant, every atom in obedience to his _effendim_ , to his Master. When the Master reaches out, he finds the Doctor's mind open, and calm with worship. _I am yours, I am yours,_ the message rises from the Doctor's mind, and from so very deep within. 

For another long minute, the Master basks in that glow. It is finer than the awe of the council, finer than the adoration of his servants. His skin tingles with warmth, and he feels a flush creep across his chest. He suddenly realises that he has ceased to pretend to read, and blinks himself from his reverie. He sets the book aside and straightens in his seat. 

"Ushaq," the Master says, formally greeting him.

On cue, the Doctor rises to his hands and knees. He crawls forward until he reaches the foot of the Master's seat, and still his head remains bowed. The Master takes the leash that is hung over the back of the seat, and brings the clip down to the Doctor's collar. The metal click is loud to the Master's ears.

The Master tugs once upon the leash, and at last the Doctor raises his head His eyes are dark, so dark. They reflect the flickering braziers and lamps as a constellation on a moonless night. 

" _Effendim_ ," the Doctor replies, a sigh filled with longing.

Almost without thought, the Master raises his hand, and cards his fingers through the Doctor's hair. It has grown long, and the sun has bleached it almost fair. The Doctor's eyes half-close with contentment. Two months ago, the Doctor's skin would have been warmed by the sun, streaming in from the garden. A month, and the reds and oranges of sunset would have shone in his hair. But now his oiled skin glows soft with yellow light, and so much of him is shadow. 

The Master's hand slides down to touch the Doctor's cheek, and the Doctor's eyes open fully. The Master must force himself not to be caught in the Doctor's quiet gaze, which draws the Master in as if to trap him, as it has always trapped him. Even when they were young and innocent, if they were ever innocent. Beneath pride and rage and love and hate, with eyes of blue or brown, that gaze always the same. 

A knock upon the door makes the Doctor blink, and suddenly there is air between them again. The Master straightens, and recovers his composure. "Enter," he calls.

Massoud returns, accompanied by servants from the kitchen, carrying trays of steaming food. The trays are placed before them on a heated table, and with a few deep bows the servants back away. The doors close, and they are alone once more. The scent of seasoned gazelle meat sizzles up, mingling with the steam from rice and spiced eggplant. 

If Mirza were between them, the Master would feed her first, and then himself. But glancing at the Doctor's dark, patient eyes, the Master knows tonight is different. This meat he chased and killed, whose blood he tasted, fresh and hot in his mouth. He will feed prey to prey. He dips a chunk of meat in the bowl of pomegranate sauce, so that the meat bleeds sweet, and slides the chunk into the Doctor's waiting mouth. Bright red-pink smears on his lips, and as he chews his tongue peeks out, pink and wet, to lick them clean.

He feeds the Doctor another chunk, another, transfixed by the red-pink smears and the pink-red tongue, and the warm wet slide of the Doctor's lips against his fingertips. He only stops when he realises he has already fed the Doctor half of their meat, and has not taken a single bite for himself. He forces himself to look away, focuses on the dinner before him, but he can barely savour the delicious food. The Doctor perches at his lap as he always does, yet the Master is aware of him so keenly: the heat of his body through the Master's silk, the spread of his hands on the Master's thigh. There is nothing from the Doctor's mind but devotion, and yet the Doctor's closeness pulls at him, pulls to draw him down and down.

A memory flashes before him, of the Doctor kneeling by his bedside, eyes dark in the shadows, lips reddened with desire. It sends a sharp jolt of lust through the Master's body, and he takes a sharp breath, gulps down a mouthful of wine. But the wine only makes him think of kisses, and he pushes the cup away. 

"Enough food," the Master says, his voice unexpectedly rough. He pushes the Doctor back with the flat of his hand, and barely remembers to catch the loop of the leash as he stands. Turned away from the Doctor, he takes a few precious seconds to compose himself, and then turns back.

"Serve me," he commands, imperious, and walks towards his wardrobe, giving just enough time for the Doctor to stand and follow. The leash goes taut and the Doctor stumbles, and the Master gives a sharp yank to hasten him. It is only when they have reached the wardrobe, and the long mirror there, that he releases the leash.

"These tonight," the Master says, pointing to the white silk robes that the servants laid out for him. 

The Doctor nods, as he has still not been given permission to speak. Silent, he moves behind the Master, and lifts away his blue robe. He smooths the silk with slow strokes, his fingers tracing along the embroidery as if it were prayer beads: _Blessings to Lord Jahandar, the sun of wisdom, ever righteous, ever victorious._

A simple worship, and so pure. The Master eases, his shoulders lowering, and when he speaks again, it is kinder. 

"I spoke in haste. Come here."

The Doctor places the robe into the wardrobe, and then goes to the Master's side. He lowers himself to one knee and bows his head. It is a sight the Master will never tire of. He reaches out, unable to resist, and traces the line of the Doctor's shoulder, touches the soft skin of his neck, where it meets the collar. As the Doctor breathes, the Master can just see a crescent of pale skin. He must swallow the wetness from his mouth before he speaks again.

"You will not go to sleep in hunger," he promises. "I will feed you more if you desire."

The Doctor shakes his head, and gives a quiet, calm smile. 

"Very well. Go place the trays outside the door, then return."

The Doctor nods, and obeys. The Master watches him, watches the strength in him as he moves, earned with months of toil. Watches the grace which he has only gained through his submission. No awkward haste, no fumbling, but every motion steady and smooth. It is as if he is a dancer, performing his worship through every step. Even though the Master has seen this every day, even though they have spent not a single night apart, it seems a sudden transformation. His Doctor has changed, has healed, and instead of righteous, instead of victorious, the Master is humbled.

When the Doctor returns, the Master beckons him again to kneel. The Doctor bows his head, and the Master cups his cheek, and draws his face upwards. There are things the Master needs to say to him, but the words will not come He can only look into the Doctor's wide, dark eyes, look and see the calm within them, the love, and the embers deep within. Again he sees the Doctor as he was last night, when the embers were a blazing fire, when that mouth was open and gasping. The moment when _ushaq_ shattered with need, and the Doctor _snarled_. And yet all that passion, all that power, is packed so neatly away, and _ushaq_ shows only devotion.

The Master wants so much, so much that he cannot have. Cannot give himself, and cannot ask to be given. For if he did, _effendim_ would shatter, and everything would fall, fall and smash into a thousand pieces. 

"Stand," he orders, with only the slightest tremble in his voice. "Continue," he commands, and looks to the mirror, to his reflection, and away from the Doctor's quiet gaze.

The Master holds out his arms so that the Doctor may strip his clothes, but the Doctor sinks down to his hands and knees before him. He takes the Master's foot, and eases the slipper from it. He brushes the dark red silk clean, then places it reverently aside. Takes the other slipper and does the same. Each time he is careful not to touch the Master's skin, for that is still forbidden to him, but he acts with such gentle care, it is as if the Master's clothes are a part of the Master's body, and deserving of equal worship.

The Doctor places the slippers carefully away, and then steps behind the Master to untie the knot of his sash. The Doctor's knuckles graze the Master's shirt, and he stands close enough that the Master can feel the heat of him through the cloth, can feel his breath tickle the back of his neck. The Master looks away from the mirror, not daring to catch the Doctor's gaze again. But when the sash loosens, and slides across his front, the red silk catches his eye. As with the robe, the Doctor smooths the fabric with spread hands, his long fingers wide as they caress. 

_Fool,_ the Master thinks, _to be jealous of a sash._

When the Doctor steps directly in front of him, the Master nearly starts. But the Doctor merely reaches up to remove the brooch from his turban. He takes it aside and rubs the ruby and pearls with a polishing cloth, and straightens the barbs of each feather. He returns to unwind the turban itself, and winds the silk back around its wooden spool. He combs the disarray from the Master's hair, and through all this never once does he touch the Master's body directly. Such skill in keeping them apart, in never breaking the barrier between them. It is the Master's own doing, and yet he hates it.

When the Doctor at last begins to remove the Master's shirt, the Master's hands have curled into fists: from the effort of his self-restraint, from his anger towards himself. His short nails bite into his palms as the Doctor's fingers delicately extricate the lacing from his shirt, allowing the blue silk to part and fall aside. In one smooth motion, the shirt is raised and pulled away, and the Master cannot even look at his own reflection. He looks away, looks away, as the Doctor's hands reach for his shalwars, as that last protection is stripped away and he is naked, naked under the Doctor's gaze.

This is not how this works. He is not made naked and trembling, unable to raise his eyes. He is not some bashful virgin, chaste and untouched, and waiting to be taken. He is _not_. But still he looks away, and cannot move, cannot speak.

Cool silk falls around his shoulders, and he blinks, looks up. The Doctor is before him, looking at him with such kindness, such love. He holds out a sleeve and draws it along the Master's arm, and it is the gentleness that breaks the Master's hearts. He does not cry, but closes his eyes again, as the Doctor tends to him, and puts away the last of his clothes. While the Doctor's back is turned, the Master at last looks at his reflection again, and draws the pure white robe tighter around himself. _Prepared for the wedding bed_ , he thinks, a crazy, distant thought, but it will not leave him.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, absently clutching at his robe. His chest aches, and if he speaks, his voice will shake. He struggles for composure, not understanding how this happened, how he was undone without a word, without a touch. 

The Doctor kneels before him, and offers up the end of his leash. The Master takes it, grips it tight, his knuckles white. Wraps it thrice around his arm so tight it bites against his skin.

"Speak," he chokes out, only able to manage that.

"Thank you, _effendim_ ," the Doctor says, voice calm and even, yet each word shivers through the Master's skin. He bows his head, at last breaking his gaze. The Master swallows his relief. Let the Doctor earn his sleep, and let this evening end before he can bear it no longer.

"I will speak," the Doctor continues, "and give thanks, and confess to you of my day."

The Master rubs his thumb along the leash, a habit that soothes his nerves. The leash reminds him that he is in control, that the Doctor is wholly his at last. 

But the Doctor looks up again, and when their eyes meet, the Master feels anything but in control. Feels a familiar twist of fear, like the first step past the edge; he hangs in the air, caught in the moment before gravity pulls him down. 

"For all you have given me," the Doctor begins, voice clear and calm, "I am grateful. For the purpose you have given me, I am grateful." He closes his eyes, and tilts his face upwards, as if basking in the sun. "Last night I dreamed, but today I understood."

Fear bates the Master's breath. "Yes?" he prompts, his voice nearly cracking.

"Yes," the Doctor echoes, but strong and certain, as if it is the Master's voice that was the echo. "I understand. What I must do." His eyes flutter open, staring out beneath his lashes. "How I must serve you." 

"You will serve as I command," the Master replies, startled by the sound of his own voice, sharp and trembling.

"No," the Doctor says, seeming to rise as he straightens his spine. "No command will stop me. I obey what is greater than my _effendim_ , than your _ushaq_. I obey what must become."

"No," the Master whispers, with the barest shake of his head. He cannot look away, cannot break from the Doctor's gaze, from the depths of his eyes. Gravity has caught him, and he is falling, falling, and the Doctor grows closer, closer.

The Doctor's hand rises up, cupped to catch his cheek, but at the last moment, stops. The Doctor's breath is warm upon his mouth, but his lips do not press. So close, so close, and the Master aches to close that distance, and yet cannot. He is trapped, and cannot break free.

"I confess this," the Doctor murmurs, the breath of each word as a kiss upon the Master's lips. "This moment." He moves away, then, and looks into the Master's eyes. And the Master sees so much there, such need, such pain. "This moment I cannot bear." 

The Master knows he must resist, knows so much depends upon it, but he is weak, so weak. The Doctor always makes him weak. _Bear it_ , he aches to say, but his voice is lost.

"I told you," the Doctor says, so close. "I swore that I would have you. But I will not." Without dropping his gaze, the Doctor grasps the end of the belt between his fingers. A pull, and the slide of silk against silk, and the belt falls loose around the Master's waist. 

"I will serve you," the Doctor declares, a tremor beneath those calm, sweet words. "As I must always serve you." The loose ends of the belt are lifted away, and left to drape upon the bed. Warming air wafts in through the slit of the Master's robe.

The Doctor's lashes lower, but the gleam of his eyes is visible beneath them. "I am your servant. Your _ushaq_. Your devoted."

"My devoted," the Master echoes, his voice a rasp. And as he has done every night, as he must do, he raises his own hand to the Doctor's cheek: to accept the Doctor's words, to rid him of a few more painful thorns. But when he dips into the Doctor's mind, there are no thorns, no cruel spines. There is only a lush forest of vines, smooth and green, and fragrant with bright flowers. The vines of his own seeding, grown vast and thick, fed on the pure soil of the Doctor's devotion. It is no wonder that he saw no deception, felt no hint of any plan. What has happened is merely the fruit of all before him, inevitable as the dawn. 

But before he can act, before he can press deeper, those lush vines rustle and stir. Fresh shoots bud and rise, grass-green and then darkening as they thicken. They reach towards him as if to the sun, hungry and yearning. The Master steps back, throat tight, and the vines match him, quicken, reaching and reaching to catch him, to grab him, to _take_ him. He stumbles back, back, and falls from the Doctor's mind, gasping, falls back against the bed, eyes wide.

The Doctor rises before him, the lamps of the room haloing his body. His eyes are dark within the shadows, as hungry and yearning as the vines within. The Master digs his elbows into the bed, instinctively scooting back, and as the vines follow, so does the Doctor, leaning forward, reaching out slow and steady until his hands press onto the bed, straddling the Master's legs. The Master glances at the shadowed bulge of the Doctor's loincloth, and then looks up, to the lush red of the Doctor's lips.

It's only then that he realises that the wings of his robe have fallen back, and he is bare, his own erection obvious. He looks away, cheeks hot, needs to cover himself but his fingers are nerveless, his hands stiff. He feels the bed shift, and feels the heat of the Doctor's body above him. The moment their bodies press together, the slightest touch, and he will break, he will shatter. He closes his eyes, cannot bear to look, to be seen.

But the moment does not come. The touch does not come. He can feel how close the Doctor is, the heat of him like coals. It seems impossible that they should be so close, and yet the Master is not touched.

The Master opens his eyes, and looks askance, and then up. And barely breathes, for the Doctor straddles him, covers him, his whole body the barest distance away from the Master's. The Master turns his head, and the Doctor matches him, that same distance maintained. It is the strength of him, the skill of months of almost-touching. 

"I am grateful," the Doctor murmurs, against the Master's mouth, "for my beloved's lips, though my lips may not kiss them."

The Master breathes in sharply. But the expected kiss does not come. The Doctor's mouth moves past, dipping to his ear. "I am grateful for my beloved's skin, though my hands my not touch it." He rises, and then dips again, to murmur at the other ear: "I am grateful for my beloved's cock, though my mouth may not suck it."

The Master hisses, and his cock twitches and swells. _Damn you, damn you,_ he thinks, his hands tightening to fists. He turns and glares, and the Doctor's mouth is curled in a smirk, and his eyes are bright and knowing. 

" _Slave_ ," the Master hisses.

"Yes," the Doctor replies, serious beneath the smile. "I am."

The Master's chest tightens, squeezes. " _Slave_ ," he hisses, wavering, and takes a gulp of air.

"Your slave," the Doctor says, gently, and moves back, bowing his head. The Master squeezes his eyes shut as the Doctor's mouth moves slowly down his front, along his belly, breath tickling the fine hairs. Moving down, inexorably down to where the Master's twitching erection waits, straining and red 

And when it is reached, the Doctor stops, and chuckles, low and loud, so that the vibrations are a caress against the sensitised skin. The Master cuts off a moan, furious at himself, at the Doctor, at his plans, at _everything_. Furious at his own desperation, at the Doctor's restraint. He grits his teeth, and his fists seize at the rumpled blankets.

The Doctor glances up to him, eyes alight with mischief, and then bows his head to the Master's cock. Does not touch, agonisingly refuses to touch, but strokes it with his breath, with murmured words, so that the Master's cock strains with need. A drop of precome pearls from the head, sliding down to drip upon the Master's groin. The Doctor leans close, so close, and breathes in, takes the scent of him, so deeply that his mouth must _water_.

The Doctor moans, as if before a feast, and sighs against the Master's cock He moves, then, repositioning himself to reach beneath, to lower his face between the Master's parted thighs. The Doctor's mouth moves down, his hot breath a trail along the underside of the Master's cock, down to murmur upon the Master's balls. And at the first caress of sound, the Master _whimpers_ , and spreads his thighs, and sobs with need, so much _need_. 

The Master sobs, and then growls, whines, and beats his fist against the bed. The Doctor wants him to beg, wants him to _bow_ , but he will not. He does not offer, but takes what is his, what has always been his, what he is _owed_. In one swift motion, he pulls his arms free, seizes the Doctor by his hair, and drags him down. The Doctor gives a muffled yelp as the Master's cock thrusts into his mouth, and his eyes tear from the sharp pull on his hair. But quickly he begins to suck, sloppy and desperate, for he has starved for this. And the Master eases his grip, and lies back with a groan.

" _Yes_ ," he hisses, pushing his head back against the bed. He begins to loosely stroke the Doctor's hair, half-soothing where he had cruelly hurt The Doctor's initial desperation eases, shifts into a steady determination of long laves and deep sucks. Through the long months of waiting, the Master did not forget the sweetness of his mouth, the way his hunger makes his mouth wet with spit. His _ushaq_ is the best of all his slaves, and the Master knows, he _knows_ , he cannot give this up. Will not. His fingers curl, and his grip tightens again, and he thrusts up, so that the Doctor gags and swallows to accept him. Deep inside, he is hot, and tight, and so very sweet.

The Doctor accepts every pull, every tug, the wordless orders given through the Master's hands and hips. He accepts, and gradually the Master relents, allowing him to lead in his service. The Doctor rises and falls, fucking himself on the Master's swollen cock, rasping his tongue back and forth along the shaft. And then he begins to slow, slow, with long, calming, exquisite sucks, and delicate licks with the tip of his tongue. The Master gives him an approving touch, and then lies back, spreading his arms upon the bed, smiling with the quiet pleasure of a king. 

"My _slave_ ," the Master breathes, relaxing into his arousal, borne along in waves, falling and rising in time with the Doctor's sucks. The Master chuckles softly, warmly, and settles a little, and raises his knees so that he may thrust lazily up into the slickness and the heat. He reaches down and brushes his fingertips along the Doctor's face. "My beautiful slave," he purrs. 

The Doctor moans in response, a delicious assent that vibrates through the Master's skin, through his nerves. The Master gasps, and his smile widens, and he reaches blindly for the trailing leash. His fingers brush it, and then grasp, and pull sharply. The leather twangs in his hand, but the Doctor barely pauses, intent upon his task. And then the Doctor sinks down, taking the Master's cock fully, until the Master swears he can feel where the collar tightens the Doctor's throat. The Doctor's wet lips work against the root, catching the edge of his balls, and the Master pulls tighter, tighter, his body suddenly taut with pleasure, back arching as he is drawn like a bow. And then all at once the Doctor's mouth is gone, and the Master slumps back on the bed, gasping, eyes wide.

The brush of leather along his side makes the Master look down, and he sees the Doctor above him, smiling, his leash dangling free as he crawls forward. The Doctor chuckles, and brings his mouth down to the Master's chest, and drags his lips against one nipple. The Master bites his lip, and grabs the leash again, but doesn't direct, isn't sure whether he should urge the Doctor on or force him away. When he does neither, the Doctor continues on, sucking and licking the swollen nub. The Master squirms, moans, and rests his hands in the Doctor's hair.

The Doctor raises his head, mouth red and eyes glinting, and he crawls forward again, and brings those swollen lips to the Master's ear. "Your slave," he murmurs, as he kisses and tastes, "would give his hands the same feast as his mouth."

"My slave _presumes_ ," the Master hisses, teeth clenched against the soft, insistent pleasure. At last he pulls the leash taut, bringing the Doctor up to face him. "My slave will _serve_ , or he will do nothing at all," the Master warns. 

"As my king commands," the Doctor says, but there is little of obedience in his face. 

The Master glares at him, and thrusts his hips once. "Let your mouth resume its feast, and _silence_ it," he growls, and lets the leash go slack.

The Doctor bows his head, but the Master can see the smile curling his lips The Doctor turns to obey, but does not return to the end of the bed. Instead he straddles the Master's waist with his arms, and buries his face against the Master's crotch. The Master knows he should correct him, should make his dominance clear. Instead he groans and thrusts himself against the Doctor's welcoming mouth.

The Master soon finds himself lost in the Doctor's licks and sucks, and closes his eyes. The Doctor's efforts are seemingly redoubled, determined to coax out the Master's moans and whimpers, to make him writhe helplessly on the bed. And then the Master feels a shift around him, and opens his eyes to find the Doctor's thighs straddling him, the Doctor's erection and his heavy balls dangling like ripe fruit, so easily within reach. The Master's mouth waters, and his hands clench into fists, and he stares, stares as they sway with the motion of the Doctor's body, stares as the Doctor's cock bobs and twitches against the loincloth. The back of the short covering has ridden high, exposing the lower half of the Doctor's arse, and the shadowed cleft tempts the Master's tongue and his fingers.

But before temptation can break his restraint, a new sensation makes his eyes widen, a tightness twining around his cock that makes him gasp. He looks past the Doctor's limbs to see his hands moving quickly between the Master's thighs, although what the Master feels is not the touch of skin against skin. The Doctor's hands move aside, and the Master catches a glimpse of a thin leather thong binding his cock and his balls -- surely the thong from the waist of his robe -- and then the Doctor's mouth is upon him again, obscuring the sight. 

"I did not order you to _touch_ ," the Master snarls, though he does not resist.

"I did not touch," the Doctor replies, murmuring against the Master's bound cock. He looks at the Master from under his straddling body. "My hands tasted not a single morsel of this feast." 

The Master bucks and twists, groaning against the sharpening ache. The Doctor nibbles at the leather, tasting it, laving the skin where the leather presses taut. And then the scratch of a nail along the thong, a bare scratch, not touching skin, but all the same a cruel tease that makes the Master's teeth ache. He curses, curses under his breath, as the Doctor traces around and around, so very neatly.

With a growling huff, the Master turns aside, twisting beneath the Doctor's crouch. He's had enough of teasing, enough of letting the Doctor get his way. He feels the Doctor kissing his hip, and turns the rest of the way onto his front, away from temptation. The silk sheets are smooth against his cheek, smooth against his cock, still bound with leather cord.

But before he can reach down, before he can decide if he wants to end this game, the Doctor's mouth is on him again, kissing and nuzzling at the cleft of his arse. And then not just nuzzling but licking, his wet tongue sliding and pressing, his mouth pushing apart the Master's arsecheeks just so. At first, the Master thinks to pull away, but instinct and pleasure raise his hips, and he finds himself pushing back against the Doctor's mouth. He drags his face against the sheets, his moans muffled by the bed; he does not want to feel so wanton, so shameless. Does not want it, and hides his face within the crook of his arm, and bites restlessly at the air. 

The Doctor seems to feel no such reluctance. His mouth is eager, and his tongue feels thick as it pushes into the Master's arse, thick and warm and wet, the wide of his tongue rubbing at the rim. It drags a moan from the Master's chest, full of all the need he tries so hard to suppress. A moan and then another, as the Doctor's tongue fucks him, fucks him with promise, unspoken yet certain.

The Doctor feasts upon him, torments him with pleasure. The Master bucks up, desperate with lust, pushing back to ride the Doctor's mouth, to be filled by his tongue. Bucks again, and then burns with shame: to have his need so easily expose him, to be made as willing and wanton as any slave in his harem. An image flashes before him, of being lined up with the other slaves, naked and collared, as the Doctor parades before them in the finest robes. Lust shocks through him and he sobs, and snarls in refusal.

He will not be made a fool of, he will _not_. Angrily, the Master pushes himself up on his arms, but in doing so presses his back against the Doctor's front. The full-body contact makes him falter, and he turns his head, only to find himself nuzzling the Doctor's cock. _Yes_ , he thinks, and grabs it, and begins to stroke. 

"You ask for touch, and you are given it," he says, smirking to himself, ignoring his own breathlessness. He feels the Doctor's weight shift against his back, as the Doctor hisses and moans from the Master's forceful strokes. It is the first touch to his cock since his enslavement, and at first it seems that the Master has undone him. But all too soon he recovers, and the Master is the one to tremble as the Doctor sucks upon his balls. 

Back and forth they go, each trying to break the other with pleasure: the Doctor lapping and sucking and fucking the Master's balls and arse, his tongue and lips so eager, and the Master stroking and tasting, using his hands to his advantage. Both are determined in their pleasure, and do not relent, no matter their moans and gasps. 

The Master begins to wonder if they might go on forever like this; the thought makes him smile, and he reaches up to stroke the soft skin of the Doctor's thigh. And falters, as he feels the same stroke to his own thigh. Hand still in place, he looks beneath him, and sees the Doctor's hands firmly upon the bed. And yet the phantom hand is still against him. He moves his hand, and the ghost-hand follows, and he understands.

"Very naughty," the Master murmurs, and catches the tendril of the Doctor's mind -- the one that tapped into his own, to share the sensation. If the Doctor cannot use his hands, he can use the _Master's_ hands. The Master examines the tendril, and recognises it as one of the vines that had sought him so hungrily. But here in his hand it is a docile thing, and hardly to be frightened of. In his mind, he strokes the vine, and it curls playfully around his fingers, like a tamed pet. Like the Doctor himself, he realises, and finds the knowledge pleasing. 

The Doctor thinks to trick him, but the Master cannot be tricked, not in his own mind. He pulls the vine closer, and wraps it around his arm, capturing control of the connection. It is true that he yearns for the Doctor's touch, but how much better to have that touch and still deny the Doctor? He will use his slave as a mere conduit for pleasure, and what better purpose is there for his _ushaq_? 

With a firm grip on the vine, the Master snaps back to himself, and immediately takes equal control. He easily pushes the Doctor over, so that he falls onto his back, and the Master crawls over him, capturing him anew. The Doctor is beautifully pliant as the Master tastes him, caresses him, rubs long against him, and every sensation is carried through the vine and back to him, doubling his pleasure. He feasts upon the Doctor's body, and is feasted upon himself, and all the Doctor may do is gasp and moan and writhe in his grip, a true slave at last. The vine writhes too, echoing its source, and the Master pulls until it is taut, and wraps it again and again around his arm. The Doctor tenses in his arms, and then undulates beneath him, and would surely curl around him like the vine, if he were allowed to touch.

And why not? the Master wonders. Why not, when the Master has taken him so easily, so completely? Another vine reaches towards him, and the Master seizes it, too, and delights as the Doctor shivers in submission. Let them come, let the vines come and be taken, let them give themselves up to him. Let the Doctor give himself up, one piece at a time. The Master will take all that he gives. And why not be generous, when he has such riches?

"My slave may worship his beloved with his hands, and with his body," the Master murmurs, low in the Doctor's ear. "My slave may touch freely, and give himself whole."

The Doctor shudders again, and looks to him with such gratitude, such joy. " _Effendim_ ," he sighs, and reaches up and rests his hands upon the Master's back. The double feedback doubles again, and he feels himself feeling the Doctor feeling the touch of hands against back. The single, simple touch leaves the Master reeling, and hungry for more. 

The Doctor needs no direction. At long last granted permission, he is almost frantic at first, as if he must touch every inch of the Master's skin; when he calms from the initial rush, his touch is languid, wallowing in the simple pleasure of contact. The Master returns with his own caresses, and soon all sensation blurs between them. And then it is the Master's turn to wallow, lost in the haze of touching and touched. 

A few more timid vines peek into the Master's mind, and each one he captures in the same fashion as the first, strengthening his hold of the connection, and intensifying it. Soon he is content to let the Doctor touch as he will, and allows the Doctor to turn him onto his front, so that the Doctor may rub and caress his back. The Doctor works his way exquisitely down, then urges the Master to fold his legs under, and raise up his arse. The intensity of the moment when the Doctor brings his mouth and fingers to the Master's arse--it leaves the Master shivering and gasping, and his cock throbbing The Doctor's long fingers curl inside him, and rub steadily as the Doctor's eager tongue laps and laves at the clenching rim.

The Master lolls against the bed, insensate with pleasure. He feels a distant tickle in his mind, and draws inside himself to find the ends of the bound vines have grown, and are brushing against him, wrapping loose around his waist, his legs, his cock. He feels no threat from them, only the fullness of the Doctor's worship, his love, his devotion. Knowing he could slice through them at any time, the Master allows the vines to grow gently around him, pleasuring him as the Doctor pleasures him, surrounding him with the Doctor's submission and love. 

He returns to his senses, and moans deeply as his cock twitches and drips. The Doctor is milking him, as he once milked the Doctor, long ago in a sand-swept tent. With his free hand, the Doctor traces his fingers along the leather that still binds the Master's cock. Here and there he presses, pushing the leather against hard, swollen flesh, squeezing out another drop of precome. With so many vines in his grasp, the Master can close his eyes and feel the Doctor play his fingers against the precome, see it as it dangles in a long, clear line down to the bed. He can see how his own balls are drawn up and full, how his cock bobs in the air, flushed dark with blood. 

"More," the Master slurs, ever greedy for more sensation, more of the Doctor. He feels fresh vines answer his call, and wrap themselves so obediently around his arms, though they are already thick with captured vines. "More," he slurs, insistent, and begins to pull himself along the cabled rope of them, towards the source. And eagerly, the vines obey, carrying him forward, into the Doctor's mind, into the forest-thick tangle. He will take them all, capture every one and take them as his own, and bind the Doctor to him, bind him so deep that the Master will feel every nerve, will feel his very soul, and even that may not be enough.

So much power, so much control. Without words, he compels the Doctor to rise, commands him to serve as he has long ached to serve. The Master sees through the Doctor's eyes, feels through the Doctor's hands, as the Doctor turns the Master onto his back, and pushes oil-slicked fingers into the Master's arse, as the Doctor strokes his own cock to wet it. He feels the desperate edge of the Doctor's need, and the gathering force of his own climax, rumbling like a quake before a tidal wave. Urgently, he pulls the Doctor along, dragging him to thrust deep, to grip tight, to _fuck_ his _effendim_ like a good, obedient _ushaq_. They groan in unison with the first thrust, both breathing hard, four hearts racing almost in time. 

_Fuck me_ , the Master commands, and the Doctor thrusts hard, breathing harsh through gritted teeth, grip bruising on the Master's hips. But even this, so longed for, so achingly good, is not enough.

"Come to me," the Master commands the vines, and they obey, wrapping around and around him. The sensations are magnified, over and over, until the Master is at last overwhelmed, every sense straining with fullness, straining with the full force of the Doctor's mind, pouring in through countless vines.

The Master has a moment of pure panic, as he realises that this could have been a mistake. That if the Doctor intended to trick him, to trap him, this would be the moment of his downfall. But each vine brings a clearer, sharper awareness of the Doctor's body and mind, and there is no pretence to be found, no trap. There is only devotion, only love, and for the first time, the first time in so very long, perhaps the first time ever, the Master genuinely believes it, genuinely realises that the Doctor loves him and trusts him and will obey, will obey because he is the Master's, and has always been, beneath it all. 

And it is then that he feels the pain, and looks down to see the tips of the vines burying themselves in his chest. He cannot move, cannot think, can only gape as he watches the vines sink inside, as he feels them tearing into the space between his hearts. He shudders bodily, voiceless with shock and pain and confusion, silently commanding them to stop, silently begging why, why, but they are determined in their course.

And then comes a pain, deep and sharp and old, so old. A pain that he'd ignored, that he'd thought healed, or at least buried so deep as not to matter, not to hurt him ever again. But it hurts him now, as the vines tear away the scar tissue that grew so thick around it. There is a yank, a pull, a tearing as if something essential is being violently ripped away, and then he gasps as the vines pull free. 

In their grip is an ugly thing, a black, hooked thorn, massive in size. A thorn that the Doctor himself placed in the Master's chest, so long ago. And now, so many years later, he has finally pulled it free. The Master stares at it as it begins to glow, as it fills with a warm, golden light. The light burns brighter and brighter, making the Master's eyes tear, making him shut his eyes. And when the glow is gone, the thorn is ashes, drifting gently away into the darkness.

The Master sobs, his chest torn inside and aching with emptiness. As if in response, the vines rush back, and plunge back into his chest, this time filling the empty space, until it aches with fullness. And the golden light returns, bright within his chest, and he is afraid he will burn to ashes like the thorn. But there is only a warm, gentle heat, the Doctor's love nestling inside him, and radiating through him.

Their work done, the vines' grip eases, and the Master opens his eyes, returned to himself, trembling and sweating. He gasps as the Doctor thrusts sharply, and finds himself clinging to the Doctor, holding on as the Doctor grunts and hisses, the scent of their sweat rich between them. The Master still feels all that the Doctor feels, head swimming with sensation and lust. And the warmth in his chest is still there, spreading through him, making his skin flush hot. The Doctor is hot, too, his chest and face reddened from more than exertion. The Master holds him tight and rides his thrusts and closes his eyes and reaches out, not seizing but offering. And the Doctor accepts.

The vines are still deep in his chest, feeding the glow. But the Doctor is there, too, the glowing terminus of the vines. They pour out of his chest, golden with light, undulating gently. The vines grow shorter as the Doctor draws nearer, until their bodies meet, and their chests press together. Energy moves between them, rich with love, with heat, cycling between them over and over, until there is no difference between them, until they have been fused into one, joined twins bound with the brightest golden light. The Master shuts his eyes and wonders if he will at last burn, and hopes they will burn together.

But it is not fire that comes, but water: the great swell of climax, at last building within the both of them, their bodies rising as one. They gasp together as their heartsbeats quicken, four hands tightening their grips, their muscles clenching and clenching. They have gone beyond feedback, beyond the mere sharing of senses. They are one, they are one, and the realisation makes them sob. Something snaps inside their chests, and they are unmoored, tumbling free together, as they are driven higher and higher. Until at last the wave crests, and they are slammed down, sobbing and bucking and crying for each other, as their bodies thrust wildly together, all control gone, all the world golden.

The tide pulls away, leaving them limp and shuddering and gasping, limbs tangled, and the Master is smiling, smiling, and doesn't understand why he feels light, as light as a feather. The pain is gone, the pain he hadn't even remembered is gone, and the Doctor is in his arms, exhausted and giddy. They kiss, they kiss, deep and full and steady, the kiss they never had but always needed. 

"I am grateful for my beloved's lips," the Master murmurs, tears in his eyes.

"As is your slave," the Doctor replies, grinning.

But even as he says it, the Master knows that it isn't true. That the Doctor has never been his slave, not truly; he could never be a slave. But the fear that the Master expects with that realisation never comes, and he feels only a steady warmth in his chest. There is still a connection between them, a few vines that curl and grow within him, filling the empty spaces with the Doctor's love. Healing him, as he has healed the Doctor.

"This slave is the king of my heart," the Master says, quietly, humbled. He holds the Doctor close. "And I am grateful."

§


	11. Chapter 11

The world is warm with golden light. He knows this, even though his eyes are closed. He basks in the light of twin suns, feels the tickle of long, waving grass against his skin, and knows this is a dream, a memory of long ago, because of the weight of the man slumbering in his arms. He sees without seeing: the secret highlights in Koschei's dark hair, the pale-peach glow of his skin, never tanning despite hours out of the dome, naked, daring the suns to burn them the colour of the grass. The dream feels real, even though it isn't, the weight of him, the heat of him, the lingering taste of him, so real. 

Flurry birds flit past, casting the briefest shadows, twittering their summer songs. The Doctor smiles, nuzzles the nape of the Master's neck, Koschei's neck, the soft, wispy hairs there. Koschei will wake, will roll over and tell him he's a bore, all that romantic nonsense, and none of his words will matter because the truth will be so clear in his eyes. Because of the taste of his lips, still stained with trumpberries, just like their hands. The birds had chased them away from the bushes, tweeting after their stolen fruit.

As if in reminder, the birds circle round again, closer this time, tweeting louder. The Doctor grumbles and snuggles closer, and as he does the ground seems to dip and sway. An angry bird swoops down and hovers above him, tweeting in his ear, and he grumbles and waves it away. The Master stirs in his arms, and the Doctor feels a heavy weight press down, and he opens his eyes.

Mirza stares back at him, and chirps. She presses herself down, trying to nose her way under the covers, and the Doctor yelps as she steps on him with cold, sharp paws. Her efforts further rouse the Master, who blearily turns and smiles, and reaches out to scritch her jaw. She churrs happily, then thumps onto her side between them, and rolls onto her back, a look of pure contentment on her face. The Doctor considers being annoyed with her, but rubs her belly instead.

The Master yawns and stretches, then settles down on his side, and gives Mirza her morning scratch, fingers dragging through her thick, coarse fur. He dotes on her adoringly, and the Doctor finds suddenly that he would rather that adoration be directed elsewhere.

"Should I be jealous?" the Doctor asks, wryly.

The Master gives a soft huff of a laugh, and glances briefly at the Doctor, and then down again. There's a long pause, punctuated by Mirza's loud purrs, and then: "No," he says, almost a whisper.

Then he looks up, eyes clear and awake, and says, "Ring for the servants."

The Doctor reaches up and rings the bell. The servants will hear, and begin the morning routine: coffee, breakfast, baths. Questions pool on the Doctor's tongue: has anything changed? Has everything changed? But he can't bring himself to ask, suddenly uncertain, shy. Then he feels foolish for his shyness, and makes the decision for himself.

"Off," the Doctor tells Mirza, firmly. He nudges her, but she just stares at him, and licks her chops. The Doctor appeals to the Master. "Tell her to move."

The Master looks back at him with an expression remarkably similar to Mirza's. Then he cocks an eyebrow, and quirks a smile. "Off," he tells Mirza, giving her a nudge, and reluctantly she complies. She stands between them, shakes herself, and languidly jumps to the floor, flicking her tail at them as she saunters off. 

The Doctor looks at the Master, and the Master looks back. The moment, the space between them seems to stretch, out and out, and then it snaps back, dragging them with it. The distance closed, the Doctor touches the Master at last, cups his hand against the line of his jaw, the pulse of his neck. Not a dream, not this, with the soft morning light glowing through the curtains, casting everything in bright shadow. Not this, with the scent of their bodies, of their sweat, of sex, rich between them, and wonderful. Not this, with the Master's lips dry from sleep, but soft and hungry against his own 

There is nothing urgent between them, only a steady, sated wanting. They wallow in each other, bodies close, entwined. Their mouths are light on each other's bodies, flitting and tasting, like butterflies in a feast of flowers. They touch, they hold, they press and part and press again, and the Doctor's hearts break with sudden, impossible joy. He soaks up the sight of the Master, of his mussed hair, of the soft lines of his features, the love in his eyes. Of peach-pale skin, and the soft nape of his neck. The suns have gone, the vast fields, the flurry birds, the tart trumpberries, but they're still here, still in the taste of the Master's skin, saved forever in the wry curve of his smile. 

For so long, he was denied this. Not only these months of service, but the long years stretching back, back, to a place and time that no longer exists, that cannot be visited. Denied by the Master, denied by himself, this tenderness between them, hidden away under so much pain and regret. Fools, punishing themselves, unable to heal. 

Until now. Now, everything will be better, everything will be all right. All because of his Master, his Effendim. No matter what happens after this, he thinks the Master will always be that to him, now. It's gone too deep, too far. But the Master has been a part of him for all his life. The dark, serious boy who ran with him in the long grass is the same as the man beside him, breathing soft and even.

They might have stayed this way forever, but all too soon there's a knock on the door. Mirza trots over to the door, baring her teeth menacingly.

"Enter," the Master calls, and the door opens. 

Makeda enters, carrying a tray; steam wafts from the silver carafe. She does not enter, but bows her head to Mirza, and waits for permission to be granted. Mirza licks her whiskers, and rubs herself against Makeda's legs, and Makeda smiles down at her. At last Makeda enters the room, and places the tray on a low table beside the bed.

"Emir," Makeda nods. Her eyes meet the Doctor's, and she looks thoughtful as she takes in this new development. The moment she leaves, gossip will spread the news like wildfire. She raises her head, and meets the Master's gaze. She cocks an eyebrow questioningly, and then smiles just so, a knowing, subtle smirk. 

"Makeda," the Master greets. "What delight have you brought for me today?"

Makeda's smile widens, grows fonder. "A delicacy from my homeland. With your generous permission, it was acquired for me by Firuz. It is a medicinal broth, prepared from the fruit of the _bunn_ tree."

The Master glances at the Doctor, as if enjoying a private joke. "And you roasted the fruit, as I advised?"

"Yes," Makeda says. "To great improvement. Shall I fill your cup?" She picks up the carafe.

"No," the Master says, making her hesitate. "A cup for my slave."

He turns fully to the Doctor, and cups his hand against the Doctor's neck, against his collar. Rubs his thumb along the edge, along soft skin, making the Doctor's breathing shallow. The slightest push from that hand, and the Doctor slowly rises, up from his sideways lounge, up to his hands and knees, the blanket slipping away. The Master leans forward, keeping contact. And then that hand slides around, applies a slight pressure to the Doctor's neck, urging him down. The sensation slides through the Doctor's mind, and instinctively he folds himself, bowing deep, deep, until his forehead touches the covers that lay over the Master's hip. 

The light press of the Master's fingers against his collar is a strange, sharp pleasure, and he presses back against it. Not to resist, for he has no desire to resist. But to encourage, seeking more as Mirza seeks a scratch. He feels distant to himself, and yet where the Master touches, there he is fully present. He is shocked by himself, as if only realising how deeply he has drowned because he briefly touched the air. 

A firm press from the Master's hand, and then the touch is gone, but the Doctor keeps as he was put. He feels the Master slide back and sit fully upright. He hears the pouring of water, the chink of porcelain. A rich, familiar steam wafts towards him. 

"Leave the rest," the Master tells her, a quiet command. The Master's hand returns, stroking the Doctor's unruly hair, and it makes the Doctor's belly curl and warm.

"Bring our breakfast, and robes of the finest silk," the Master continues. "Something that befits him."

"At once, my Emir." Her soft, certain steps walk away, the bells around her ankles tinkling like rain. There is the sound of the door closing shut. She is gone.

The Master chuckles, proud and self-satisfied. The hypnotic stroke of his hand stops, and there is a touch to the Doctor's chin, urging him up. The Doctor sits back on his heels, and breathes in deeply, trying to clear the sweet fog from his mind. The Master hands him his cup, and the steam fills his senses, clears them. He sips, swallows, and wonders why his hearts are pounding.

"Coffee," he says, suddenly. "Of course, _bunchum_. Ethiopia?"

"The wonders of the Silk Road," the Master replies. "I'll send a sample to Avicenna later this century."

"Cheeky," the Doctor says, absently. He takes another swallow, because he needs it. It's hot and black and bitter, and for the first time today, he feels awake. For a moment, he is suspended, hanging high over darkness, stomach twisted in expectation of the fall. But the moment ends, and he is kneeling on the Master's bed, sipping coffee, and the Master is pouring himself a cup.

The Master takes a thoughtful sip. "Not bad," he decides, and downs the rest. He drops the cup on the tray, then leans back with a great, wide stretch of his arms. He looks utterly contented, and there's a fresh hunger waking in his eyes. He waits until the Doctor finishes, then takes the cup and leaves it on the tray. He pulls the Doctor to straddle over him, pulls him into a long, long kiss. Within it, the Doctor wakes again, and this time much more pleasantly.

The Master touches the collar again, toying, caressing. His fingers hook and pull, so that the Doctor must swallow against it, so that the kiss breaks The Doctor looks at him, questioningly, as the Master turns the collar until the buckle faces front. The Doctor's eyes widen as the Master slips open the catch, and the collar opens. The Doctor touches the pale stripe, shocked again, confused. Of course, every day the collar is removed for his bath, but that is done by servants, and never in front of the Master. 

The Master holds up the collar and examines it, thoughtful. And then, just like that, he throws it away, tossing it towards the door for the servants to take away. The Doctor stares, a dozen questions fighting for his tongue, none of them winning.

A press to his shoulder, and the Doctor rises up and back, rocking onto his heels, still staring. But his confusion eases as the Master rises with him, and kisses the pale stripe of his neck, kisses and tastes and touches, caressing with his fingertips, with his thumb. The Doctor takes a ragged breath, and as he breathes out, his eyes close to slits, and he surrenders to the Master's embrace. His head falls back as the Master feasts upon him like a vampire, reddening the tender skin, softened by the long shelter of the collar. All the questions fall away, one by one, until only one word remains, until one word claims the Doctor's tongue. 

" _Effendim_ ," he moans, heartfelt, a trembling sound. He holds the Master back, loosely, unrestraining. The Master's answer is a purr against his throat, rich and sated, sending shivers down the Doctor's spine. The Master's mouth is hot, his tongue wet, and the blunt press of his teeth is as powerful as any words. His pulses beats strong against those teeth, as if rushing to greet them, as if sensing their king. Distantly, he feels the brush of the Master's erection against his own, and only then realises the strength of his arousal. A whimper tears itself from him, loud and desperate, a sob of need so great, he can hardly believe it is his own. What has the Master done to him, to make him _need_ , to make him _feel_. What has the Master let free, that the Doctor locked away inside himself for so very long?

When the Master finally pulls away, he leaves behind a new collar, a ring of skin swollen pink, tender and throbbing. The Master caresses it, admiring, doting. 

"You will have a new one," he promises, intensely. "Bright with jewels and whitest gold." He touches again, tracing the imagined collar, seeing it in his mind's eye. "It will be our covenant of Mehregan. We will show the world what befits my consort."

There is such intent, such meaning in the Master's words, that the Doctor can only nod. The words are greater than a promise. _Consort_ , the Doctor thinks, and his head feels light.

The Master pushes and guides the Doctor onto his back, and crawls over him, straddles him, so that the Doctor's erection is pressed down by the Master's crotch, his balls. The Master wriggles, enjoying the Doctor's strangled moans. And then he leans forward, and wraps his hands lightly around the Doctor's neck, making a collar of his hands. He holds, not to strangle, but to claim, to make a promise of his own flesh. The Master shifts and squirms, frotting with the weight of his body. The Doctor's eyes tear from the exquisite ache in his cock, his flattened balls. He stares up into the Master's eyes, and is made breathless by them: such arrogance, such certainty, and such love. _Consort,_ he thinks, over and over again.

There is a knock on the door; Makeda has returned with breakfast. The Doctor starts to push himself up, thinking to grab the covers, but the Master's weight keeps him down. The Master's grip tightens and loosens, becoming a one-handed caress. His shifts and squirms taper, but he keeps a lingering, slow frot, back and forth, coaxing out little gasps. 

"Enter," the Master calls, half-turning, casual.

The door opens to Makeda, and again she must pass Mirza's inspection. To Makeda's credit, she barely blinks at the sight on the bed before her, but then she has seen far more lurid sights in the harem, and been part of them. The accompanying servants, however, are less inured, and barely hide their gawping. They have the sense to quickly recover themselves, and follow Makeda's lead. The Doctor blushes, cheeks hot at being so displayed. 

"You may take the broth," the Master tells them, barely any effort in his voice, as if he is merely looking up from reading a book. "Leave the trays by the bed."

Makeda lays down her tray, and her eyes linger on the join between the two men's bodies. "Will you be requiring the services of your harem tonight, Emir?" There is no hint of informality in her voice, but the Doctor sees amusement and lust in her eyes.

When the Master doesn't immediately reply, Makeda continues, voice lowered with familiar intimacy. "If you are in a generous mood, I know that Eliel has longed for a taste..." She trails off, a smirk tugging at her lips. The knowing, the hunger, the confidence with which she speaks to her Emir... The Doctor whimpers softly, cheeks burning, cock _aching_ , at being treated so.

But the Master chuckles, displaying only fond amusement. "Another time. Empty my schedule. I want no interruptions."

"Yes, Emir. And your slave?"

The Master smirks. "He will labour under me, instead of the hot sun."

Makeda nods. "After you have finished, shall we take him to be cleansed?"

"No. I will take him to my baths," the Master replies. "And after, send my personal tailor, and silk cloth." He looks down at the Doctor, full of pride. "He will have new robes, to befit the status of the slave who shares the Emir's bed. I will have him measured."

"Yes, Emir," Makeda says. The Master dismisses them. The servants leave the robes on the chest by the bed.

Makeda casts one last glance towards the Doctor as she leaves them, and then at last they are alone. The Master lifts up, then presses down again, rutting circles against the Doctor's aching genitals. The Doctor hisses and groans, looking away, cheeks still hot.

The Master leans forward, leans close. "Did you enjoy that, my beautiful slave?" he murmurs. "Displaying yourself, your obedience? Next time, we must show them how sweetly you moan."

"No," the Doctor moans, but it's a feeble protest. _Next time_ , he thinks. _Consort._ An image comes to him, so clear it might be from the Master and not himself: of a grand party in some far-off land, of the Master seated and sprawled, and the Doctor kneeling before him, naked. Of his mouth sweetly nuzzling the Master's balls, of the soft clink of a leash clip against his glittering collar. The leash crossing his cheek as it leads up to the Master's hand. The images spark through him like lightning, and he arches, growls through clenched teeth, and collapses, panting, aching, flushed.

" _Yes_ ," the Master hisses--in affirmation, in answer? The Doctor doesn't know, and doesn't think, because at once the Master is kissing him, is over him, his whole body covering him, pressing and holding and touching, the Master's own erection a brand against the Doctor's hip, hot and thick and ready. "My _ushaq_ ," he murmurs, breath hot against the Doctor's ear "My ushaq. _Kneel_ for me."

The Doctor groans, his hands wide against the Master's back. He tries to thrust up, but only presses himself harder against the Master's weight. The Master's body is taut, his muscles hard beneath peach-smooth skin, and he presses himself down with impossible strength. And then suddenly the Master eases, thrusting languidly against the Doctor, nuzzling and murmuring and planting kisses on his shoulder and neck. 

"Kneel for me," the Master says again, and rises, sits back. 

The Doctor lies still for a moment, bereft at the loss of contact, and then gathers his wits. Clumsily, he slides and stumbles to the floor, and kneels, bows. As he stares at the floor, the Master's legs slide into view, and then there is a guiding touch to his cheek. He raises his head, and the Master smiles down upon him. The vision again flashes before him, and at once he knows what to do. He bows his head again, and brings his mouth sweet to the Master's balls, to suck and lap. The Master hisses with pleasure, and curls his hands in the Doctor's hair. 

"Beautiful slave," the Master slurs, allowing the Doctor to serve. His hands knead and pet, and trace down to the absent collar. And then the Master straightens, regal, as if upon a throne, and the hands fall away. The Doctor catches a sideways glance, and sees that the Master's eyes are closed, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. And then he smiles, wide and white, and looks down upon his slave. He laughs, warmly, and leans back, his erection bobbing in the air. "C'mon, time to eat."

The Doctor smiles back, his lips tingling from use. He looks down again, unable to stop staring at the Master's erection, and reflexively licks his lips.

"You want this, hmm?" the Master says, amused. He gives himself a few strokes, then cups his cock with his hand, as if offering it up. 

"Maybe for dessert," the Doctor says, somehow finding his voice again. He smiles back, but the heat between them smoulders. He wants to take the Master's cock and squeeze the shaft, suck on the head like a lolly, all cherry-red. But somehow he resists. And then his stomach grumbles loudly, and the tension eases.

The Master releases himself, and reaches for a tray. He grabs a small pot of honey, and a plate laden with slices of soft bread and cheese. While the Doctor watches, the Master slathers the bread with honey, tops it off with a piece of cheese and pops it in his mouth. He gives an exaggerated moan of pleasure, smiling at the Doctor with slitted eyes as he chews.

"Delicious," the Master moans, and wipes his lips with his thumb, then sucks it clean. 

The Doctor's mouth waters, and he struggles not to moan. The Master ignores him, and continues his meal, until his fingers glisten obscenely with spit and honey. Finally, the Master looks down at him in mock surprise, as if he only just noticed the Doctor was there.

"Would you like some?" the Master asks, politely.

"Please," the Doctor begs, unable to stop his voice from cracking with want.

The Master smiles at him, and reaches for the bread and honey. He dips the bread all the way into the honey, and lifts it out, carrying it to the Doctor's mouth. But along the way, honey dribbles from the bread, onto the Master's thigh, his cock. The Master sees this, and tuts, holding the bread back over the plate.

"The first bite, and already you've made a mess," the Master says, shaking his head. "I expect you to clean that up."

The Doctor swallows, and his own cock twitches against his thighs. Eyes locked on the golden trail, he leans forward and up, bending his head over the Master's lap. The taste of honey bursts sweet against his tongue, underlied by the salt-honey sweetness of the Master's skin. The Doctor moans and laps hungrily, working his way along the Master's thigh, to the few drops on his balls, and then to his ripe, reddened cock, so sweet against his tongue The Doctor laps him clean but doesn't stop, can't stop, and takes the head into his mouth, and sucks _hard_. Above him, the Master hisses and the bread drops from his hand with a soft splat against the plate. The Doctor keeps going, reaching up to grip the Master's hips, and taking more, more, taking him deep until the Doctor is nuzzling the Master's balls once more, his lips stretched and his throat full. He is distantly aware of the Master cursing and groaning, of hands in fists against his head. But he can't stop. 

He fucks the Master with his throat, shallow, slow thrusts back and forth, relying on his respiratory bypass as he swallows and sucks. His hands grip the Master's hips with cruel force, holding him close, not letting him squirm away. And then the moment arrives, and he feels the Master's body preparing beneath him, the tension rising and muscles going taut. And the Doctor pulls back just enough to catch the Master's come in his mouth, flooding his tongue as it pulses out, sweeter than honey. 

He draws back, releasing the Master's hips. With one last suck, the Doctor lets the Master's cock fall from his mouth, glistening and spent. The Doctor sits back on his heels, and licks his lips, and smirks. "All clean."

The Master glares back, eyes glazed and mouth open, panting. 

Smugly, the Doctor reaches for the plate, and plucks the piece of bread that fell. He thumbs a piece of cheese against it, and pops the result into his mouth, and gives a satisfied moan as he chews.

"Delicious," the Doctor purrs, and swallows.

"Naughty," the Master rasps, still a bit breathless, but his composure returning. "Very, very naughty."

The Doctor blithely takes another piece of bread and cheese, then another. He smiles back. "Am I?"

"Oh yes," the Master says, leaning closer, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "And naughty slaves must be punished."

"Then _punish_ me," the Doctor replies, staring back, full of delight and lust. 

The Master leans back, and slaps his thigh. The Doctor holds his gaze as he stands, and slowly, deliberately, crawls over the Master's lap, and crouches there. Unable to resist, he wiggles his arse and giggles, and the Master glares at him and gives his arse a good, hard smack. The Doctor yelps, and pouts, and wiggles his arse again. That earns him another smack, and another, until his arse starts to throb exquisitely. After the last, he wiggles again, inviting more, but the Master has other plans. There is a sudden squeeze to his balls, tight enough to make his eyes water, and he yelps and goes still.

"That's better," the Master says, sounding out of breath. He lets go, and tenderly strokes the Doctor's reddened arse. "Now hand me the oil from the tray."

Still wincing, the Doctor obeys, awkwardly passing back the decanter. He doesn't have to wait long before he feels the cool dribble of olive oil at the crack of his arse, and dripping down his cock and balls and inner thighs. The Master is generous with it, and then with his fingers, pressing three of them to the Doctor's entrance and pushing in and out, slicking and stretching. The Doctor is tight, even after last night, and he winces as the Master slowly works him wide. His arse hasn't been entirely empty since the Master enslaved him, stretched by enemas and tending servants, but he hasn't been fucked. 

At the thought of the Master inside him, he groans and clenches, and the Master gives a knowing chuckle. 

"So hungry," the Master purrs, stretching his fingers wide, and twisting. "But have you learned your lessons? Shall your punishment end?"

The Doctor tries to think, wondering what the right answer is. He remembers the Master's challenges to him, that first night in the desert, in the tent. He struggled so hard in the Master's grip, so afraid, so angry. But he's learned so much since then, about himself, about the Master. About submission. And he remembers the day of pain, of punishment, and the words that were said. 

"I have learned," he says, honesty welling up from deep inside him. 

"Tell me," the Master says, curious. He brushes his knuckles against the Doctor's prostate, making him gasp and quiver. 

"Submission," the Doctor says, breathless. "Respect. Order."

The Master breathes in sharply, and his hand stills. And then it moves again, slower, gentler. "Tell me."

"I accept my slavery," the Doctor says, shocking himself at the depth of his belief. "I am your ushaq."

The Master doesn't respond to this, not at first. "You are," he says, at last, voice breaking with emotion. The Doctor wants to turn around, to hold the Master close, but knows he must not. Knows the Master couldn't bear to be seen. The Master's fingers move again, finding his prostate and massaging, and the Doctor gives in to the pleasure, his chest light with sudden joy. He feels as if the last barriers between them have fallen away. He feels love for the Master, pure and untainted, love for all his weaknesses and his cruelties. He feels love for himself, the old anger and self-hatred washed away. And he knows that the Master has saved him.

They are quiet together. The Master's fingers are busy, and the Doctor's cock drips out a steady trickle of pre-come, pooling on the Master's thighs. Both are focused on the same point within the Doctor's body, on the same giving of pleasure. The Doctor gives up soft moans, slowly drowning, unresisting. Every so often, the Master's fingers hit him just so, and he shudders all over, and clenches so tight. 

At last, the Master withdraws, leave the Doctor suddenly empty, where he had been opened inside. The Doctor turns, then, knowing he must, and is not surprised to find the Master staring at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. The Doctor kisses him gently, holds him, hugs him tight. The Master sobs once, twice, and then breathes loud and fast against him. The Doctor pushes him down, without force, and then lies with him, over him, and kisses him until he tastes the salt of the Master's tears.

 _I love you_ , the Doctor thinks, and so wants to say. But he knows the Master needs more time, that it would be too soon to say the words aloud. Soon, he hopes, they can say what is already true, what has been so long unsaid. But not yet.

For now, he wipes away the Master's tears, and kisses each wet cheek. He lets his eyes speak what his tongue cannot say, and shows the Master all the love he feels. And the Master accepts it, in his way, and holds him in turn, and his kisses are long and tender.

" _Ushaq_ ," the Master says, and it's as if he's never said the word before. Not like this, as if to only mean lover and not slave. 

_Lover and consort_ , the Doctor thinks, and smiles like a fool. "Effendim," he says, fond and warm. He touches the Master's cheek, cups it. The Master rests against his hand, closing his eyes, breathing softly. The Doctor kisses his other cheek, kisses away the memory of tears, nuzzles and sighs. "My Master," he murmurs, and feels the sudden hitch in the Master's chest.

"My Master," the Doctor says again, as he tilts the Master's face towards him. The Master's eyes are open, eyes dark and intense beneath his lashes. And suddenly, the Master pushes himself up, turning them over, until he covers the Doctor's body with his own. Their foreheads press together, their eyes lock. And now it is the Doctor who is breathless, and it is the Master's hand that cups his cheek, that holds him.

"Your Master," the Master says, confirms. Some deep emotion shudders through him, and he breathes in sharply through his nose, tenses and then breathes out again. And then he smiles, a slow, warm, dark smile, and the Doctor's chest swells with joy. This is his Master, arrogant and warm and certain. Without fear or rage or pain. The boy he fell in love with, the man he adored. 

"I thought I'd lost you," the Doctor says, sudden and aloud. He struggles with equally sudden tears, joy and relief that his hope was never in vain. He'd hoped for so long. He feels a fool for everything, all the pain they ever gave each other. He'd hoped for so long, but had never believed. The Master's thumb crosses the Doctor's cheek, wiping away the tears. The Master kisses him, and there's forgiveness in the kiss, such forgiveness, and apology of his own. 

Not lost, and they'll never be lost again.

"Come inside me," the Doctor murmurs, in the moment between kisses. The Master breathes in sharply, and growls into his mouth, nips at his lip. The Doctor smiles against him as he sees the lust and delight in the Master's eyes, and the Doctor invites him on with a thrust of his hips. He thrusts again, again, and the Master breaks the kiss, grabs the Doctor by his thighs, and pushes them up, folding him and baring his arse. The Doctor groans and arches his back, and grins. The Master grins back, and positions himself, and forces the Doctor's legs back and wide. 

The first push makes the Doctor's eyes water. He's tight, and the Master's cock is thick and blunt. The Master holds himself still, and releases the Doctor's legs ever so slowly, so that the Master sinks gradually inside him, with only an extra thrust here and there. The Doctor moans and spreads his arms wide, breathing shallowly as he is stretched and filled, stretched so wide. His body seems to have forgotten this, the sweet ache and sweeter burn, the heat of the Master's cock inside him, the heat of his body against him. But they've never fucked like this, not in these bodies, so slow and sweet and sharp. The Master stares into his eyes as the Doctor's body takes him inside, stares into the Doctor's soul as the Doctor gasps and clenches. When the Doctor's legs fall low enough, the Master hitches them against his sides and thrusts, and the Doctor presses his thighs tight against the Master's body. He wants to be filled, to be so full of the Master that he will burst. He has yearned for that for so long, for his body and hearts and mind to be filled beyond limit, for the Master's essence to transform him into something new and wonderful. There is a hunger in him that is never sated.

The Doctor remembers last night, how the thick vines of his mind surrounded and embraced the Master. How they reached into the Master's soul and dwelled there, and healed him. And he knows that he needs to feel the join of their souls, as the join of their bodies. The Doctor reaches up one hand and cups the Master's cheek, and opens his mind wide in invitation.

"Come inside me."

" _Yes_ ," the Master hisses, and the Doctor breathes in sharply as he feels the blunt press of the Master's mind against his own. No tendril, no testing, but the full presence of the Master pushing in, slow and steady, parting the space of his thoughts to make way. The Doctor shudders, penetrated, and slips his hand to the back of the Master's neck, to hold firm. Somehow, he knows the connection will not break from the mere drop of his hand, that it is not the Master who needs the solidity of touch. The Doctor can feel his mind being filled, the strange ache of another mind so fully within his own. And in turn, his own mind surrounds the Master's, holds and welcomes it. 

" _Yes_ ," the Doctor hisses, as the Master settles, seats deep. The fullness is almost enough, and satisfies like a hard press against aching muscle. 

They hold this way, adjusting to the fullness, to being held so completely. They begin to move with shallow thrusts, parting only enough that they may meet each other again, full and deep. The Doctor holds, holds, clinging and clenching, muscles taut with effort, mouth slack from the Master's mind pushing out and out, until at last the Doctor pushes back, not to resist but to match. And with that, he drops his hand, and holds the Master within himself, holds him so tight.

The Master keens softly, thrusts sharply against the Doctor, inside him, as if his body yearns to follow his suspended mind. He is half-caught, so much of himself fully in the Doctor's grasp, but so sweetly that he does not struggle to be free. The Doctor's hands stroke aimlessly, soothing as he weaves his vines thick around the great expanse of the Master's mind within him. He will keep this gift until he is ready to return it.

"My Master," the Doctor coos, a tremble in his voice from the effort of his mind. The fullness, the capture: both are exquisite. The Master's eyes stare at him, unfocused; the connection between them is narrow but steady, so that the Master is still within himself enough to be present and to act. Yet he is in the Doctor's thrall, now, as surely if he had been bound in flesh. He feels some fear from the Master, but only a fraction of what it was last night, when he held the Master's mind for the first time. Now, along with the fear there is love, there is trust, tender but strong. 

The Doctor clenches around the Master's cock, clenches and rolls his hips. The Master responds, and they begin to fuck, slow and long and deep. The Doctor rides him, guides him, as a rider to his horse, their bodies moving as one, smooth and even. They move as one, and within, their minds move together, ebbing and flowing. The Master does not resist the vines, but begins to move through them, filling them with his own light, his own power. It is easy, for the vines began from himself, and he has tended them and nurtured them all these many months. They turn their leaves to him as to the sun, and grow strong by his will. And as the vines bend for him, so does the Doctor, thoughts bending and curling and diving into the deep of the Master's presence, slowly sinking, succumbing. 

And now it is the Doctor's eyes that glaze, and the Master's that sharpen. Their rhythm quickens, thrusts sharper and stronger. The Master kisses him fiercely, tongue thrusting and claiming in eager echo. The Doctor clings tight as his mind swirls, drawn down by his own vines, by the fresh green that shimmers with the Master's energy. At first he is lost, drowned by the depths, swooning in the Master's grasp. But as the Master gathers more and more of the Doctor within, the Doctor begins to diffuse himself within the Master, spreading himself to every corner, insinuating himself back into the vines. 

Each is so focused upon the conquest of the other that neither realises the truth until it is too late: their energies have begun to mingle beyond distinction. The vines begin to fall away, opening all paths. Both cry out as their mingled self bursts free, flooding out in all directions, drowning all in its course. Two become one, seeing through each others' eyes, fucking and being fucked, holding and being held. Their shared senses become so sharp as to be almost painful, but still they urge themselves on, frantic and desperate for more, for flesh upon flesh, for union, complete and true. Nothing else matters, and they force deeper into their minds, deeper into their bodies, crying and keening for more, _more!_

Climax blinds them, an explosion of light as their energies spark and flare Everything happens at once: every breath, every heartsbeat, every pulse and clench. In that moment, there is nothing between them, no barrier left, and they are one, they are one, riding the crest of it, in utter unison. And then after the wave, they lie gasping and shaking, minds swirling into gentle tidepools, bodies clumsy from entangled senses. 

"Don't--" the Master says.

"--move," the Doctor says. He breathes in and--

"Let me--" the Master says. He raises his hand and--

\--do this," the Doctor says, the hand pressing to his cheek. 

Both gasp as their mind enters at full strength. They seem a hopeless tangle, so knotted up that they could not hope to separate again. But this is not the first time they have done this, and they begin the process of separation, of re-individuation, with old if unpractised skill. They remember the first time they did this, daring each other after hearing stories of mind-unions gone wrong. The danger only made it sweeter. The memories of the time are startlingly clear and immediate, their faded sets becoming a single, vivid recollection. They smile at each other, hazy-eyed, indulging, remembering the sweetest of days.

Gradually their minds begin to separate. Their thoughts unlink, and little by little they become Doctor and Master, Effendim and Ushaq. All through the process, their bodies remain entwined, holding each other, foreheads together, kissing with lazy hunger. Memories separate and fade, senses divide. For a little while, the world seems dulled, but they know to wait. Patience, and awareness normalises, like eyes adjusting to a darkened room. But it leaves them both longing for another union.

"Better than I remembered," the Doctor laughs, softly. 

"Always is," the Master replies, wistful. He sighs and buries himself against the Doctor's neck, exhausted. The Doctor holds him, fingers idly tracing the Master's back. They rest, quiet and content, listening to their breathing, their heartsbeats, steady and easy. The Doctor kisses the Master's head, and brushes back his hair. The Master raises his head, and the Doctor touches the back of his hand to the Master's cheek, and smiles. The Master's mouth quirks into a smirk, and then the Master kisses him quite thoroughly.

The Doctor moans against him, and then rolls them over, and covers the Master with his body. He gasps as the change in positions pulls free the Master's softening cock, and rubs himself against the Master as his body clenches with aftershocks. He goes limp, sprawling heavily, and the Master huffs in his ear. 

"Some consort you are," the Master grumbles. "Crushing your Lord and Master."

The Doctor smiles, wider and wider. "Yes," he agrees, with a little giggle. He snuggles closer, squashing the Master against the bed.

The Master gives him an amiable smack on the arm. "Off. I command you."

The command is too relaxed to be taken seriously, so the Doctor answers him with a kiss. A long kiss that goes on and on, the Doctor's hands carding through the Master's hair, their hips frotting aimlessly, chasing the ghosts of pleasure. He doesn't want to stop, can't stop. Even now, he's compelled to claim the Master again and again, to hold him and kiss him and possibly never let him leave this bed ever again. The Doctor has needed this for so long, for so much longer than he'd allowed himself to admit, and he refuses to let it go. 

But at last the Master reinforces his command, and rolls them back over, pushing the Doctor flat on his back. "Naughty," he chides, brushing his thumb across the Doctor's swollen lower lip. Temptation flashes across his face, as if he is picturing what else the Doctor could do with his mouth. But he sits back on his heels, only allowing himself a long rake of his eyes down the Doctor's naked body. His gaze lingers on the Doctor's spent cock, on the drying come that spatters his thighs. His eyes narrow, and he drags up one of the Doctor's legs, and presses two fingers into his arse. The Doctor clenches and breathes in sharply, tender and a bit sore. The Master's fingers squelch as they press and spread, and when he draws them out, they are wet and sticky with come. The Master lies down alongside him, and feeds him his fingers; the Doctor obeys, sucking them clean, relishing the honey-salt, the sweet and bitter that was denied him the night before.

The Master pulls his hand away, and kisses him once more, brief and deep, and then lies back on the bed, sprawling, eyes closed. The Doctor pushes himself up on his elbows, and looks around the room, at last feeling like the fog of his lust is clearing. Without the heat of the Master's body, and with the covers long since pushed aside, he realises how chilly the room has become, and that the braziers have run low.

The Doctor sits up, then hesitates. Hours ago, he would have bowed his head, and asked to serve as a slave does his master. He can't do that anymore, but the instinct is still there, holding him back. He shakes it off and stands, and refills the braziers. He stares into the burning coals as he stirs them, as they catch and glow. The heat chases away the chill, and he smiles to himself, a flush of joy rising through him.

He looks back at the Master, and sees the Master watching him, quiet with love. 

"Going to look outside," the Doctor says, and has to force his legs to obey, to turn away and walk towards the garden doors. His chest feels tight and full of light, of joy. 

He opens the door, and the cold is immediate and startling. The morning dew is a ghostly frost upon the garden, and heavy, ominous clouds hang low in the sky, outlined in sharp relief by the bright morning sun. The Doctor shivers, naked against the wind, and ducks back inside, almost leaping back into the bed. He pulls up the blankets and presses himself against the Master, who yelps and glares at him.

"Cold," the Doctor gasps, and then settles as the Master's heat soaks into his bones.

"So I see," the Master drolls. He shakes his head in fond exasperation, then extracts himself from the Doctor's clinging grasp. "Baths'll be hot by now."

The Doctor pouts, then brightens. "Brilliant," he declares, and then hops out of bed. He reaches for his loincloth, but the Master stops him.

"Wait," the Master says, holding up his hand. He hops out of bed and over to his wardrobe, and pulls the stack of robes from the chest. He flips through them, then pulls out one and holds it up in front of the Doctor. It's the same blue as the robes the Master wore last night, the same fine silk, though a different style.

The Doctor turns around, and the Master slides it over his shoulders. The Doctor slips his arms inside and turns around, and the Master closes the robe and knots the belt. He runs his hands down the silk, smoothing it, admiring the lay of the silk against the Doctor's body. Then he slaps the Doctor on the arse.

"Oi!" the Doctor yelps, playfully.

"Get settled, I'll be there in a minute," the Master tells him, then gives him a quick kiss. "Won't be long."

The Doctor smiles, and hurries out to the baths. On the way out, he waves to the guards, who stare at him in bemusement. As soon as he arrives in the hot room, he strips down and splashes himself with water. He knows he should wait, but he's sticky from sex and can't wait for a good hot soak. He gives himself a quick wash and rinses off, and by the time he's finished, he's wondering what could possibly be keeping the Master.

It's probably nothing, he tells himself, but a twinge of concern knots in his belly. As if the Master couldn't take care of himself, as if he wasn't protected by dozens of guards and servants. But knowing that doesn't make the twinge go away. He dries himself off and slips his robe back on, and walks back to the room with a rather more determined stride. The Master will see him and chide him for being so impatient, will laugh at his pointless worrying. That's all that will happen.

The guards are in the same position outside the room as they were when he left. They let him in, and the Doctor pauses inside the doorway, expecting Mirza to be there for her usual bodyguarding. But she isn't there, and neither is the Master, and the door to the garden is ajar. The twinge blossoms into an angry knot of fear, and the Doctor hurries to the door, hurries outside. The ominous clouds have found them, and a light, early snow swirls down, carried on a strong breeze. The Doctor shivers and pulls the thin robe close, and scans the garden for some sign, for anything. And freezes.

A mournful sound, a sad chirping. _Mirza_.

The Doctor runs towards the sound, dread squeezing his hearts. And at the sight, he falls to his knees, and cries out: The Master lies on the ground, snow dusting his hair and lashes, Mirza nuzzling at him sadly. He is pale, his breathing shallow. A cup of wine lies spilled on the ground, dropped from his hand--the wine from this morning, from the breakfast tray. 

" _Master_ ," he shouts, grabbing him, shaking him. "Can you hear me? Who did this? _Master_!"

But the Master doesn't respond, doesn't open his eyes and smile and say it was all a joke, cruel and stupid but never _real_. He doesn't say anything. He only lies there, silent, dying.

The Doctor thinks quickly. Poison, it has to be. The weapon of court intrigue through the ages. _Who_ doesn't matter. _What_ matters. He carefully lifts the cup and is relieved to see a little of the wine still intact. He sniffs it, but doesn't immediately recognise the poison. He quickly hides it out of sight, knowing that no one can be trusted until the poisoner is found.

Part of him wants to break down, to cry and weep and beg for the Master to live, to come back to him. Poison has always been one of the worst ways to kill a Time Lord, because it can mix unpredictably with regeneration, or even prevent it altogether. He has to find a cure, to find who did this, to save the Master, and there's no time to waste. He scoops the Master up in his arms and carries him inside, calling for the guards.

"I found him," he tells them, voice trembling with emotion. "I can't wake him up. Get the physician, _hurry_!"

The guards stare at him with suspicion, but one nods and runs off, calling to the servants. The other guard tries to take the Master from him, but the Doctor turns away. He carries the Master to the bed, to their bed, the bed they made love in, that still smells of sweat and sex and joy. He lays the Master in the bed and begs him to wake up, to please wake up. 

But he doesn't wake up. He doesn't wake up, and all the Doctor can do is hold him, and wipe the melting snow from his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

The Doctor barely notices the guards returning, barely notices the doors slam open. He can barely move, barely breathe, barely do anything but stare at the Master's closed eyes and silently beg for them to open. But Mirza's menacing growl finally drags him back. He looks up, and his eyes widen as he realises Mirza is preparing to pounce. She's trained to mutilate, to kill any threat to the Master, and the guards have their swords drawn.

"Mirza, no!" he calls, urgently, hoping she is still willing to listen. "Please, they're not a threat. They didn't hurt him. Please, he _needs_ you."

The Doctor squeezes the Master's hand tight, and hopes, begs, prays for Mirza to listen. And slowly, surprisingly, she begins to relax, to back away from the guards. With a warning chuff, she turns from them. She hops up on the bed and sits next to the Master, prepared to defend him against any who draw near. But she nuzzles his side, and chirps sadly for him to awaken.

The way cleared, the guards rush forward and grab the Doctor, hauling him roughly up and back, away from the dying Master, _away_ \--

" _You_ ," snarls Farid, suddenly before him, glaring, furious. "What have you done to the Emir?! What have you done?"

The Doctor gapes at him, stunned, uncomprehending. 

"Hold him fast," Farid commands the guards, and they tighten their grips on the Doctor's arms. "He will confess what he has done, before he is _executed_."

 _Executed._ If he's dead he can't help the Master, and that's enough to shock the Doctor back to sense. He struggles against the guards' hold. "I didn't do this. I would _never_ do this!"

Farid gives a rough laugh. "You think lies will save you?"

"It's the truth," the Doctor says, sharply, but calmer. The universe still seems wrong, sliding away from him, and the sight of the Master makes his stomach turn, his hearts hurt. But the Doctor knows he has to keep calm, has to be in control, or he won't be able to save the Master from this. And he has to save him, he _will_ save him.

Farid leans close. "I know what you are. I know what your _kind_ are capable of. We all know the stories of Emirs and Caliphs, killed by their catamites as they slept. Assassins and cowards!" 

Farid raises a heavily-gloved hand, and slaps him hard across the cheek, the force of the blow snapping the Doctor's head back. The Doctor gasps and winces, and tastes blood from where the metal plating cut his lip. As the pain fades, he gathers himself, finds his voice.

"I know you care about him," the Doctor says, looking to Farid with open emotion. 

Farid flinches, and turns his face away. 

"I know you do," the Doctor continues. "And you know that I... that I love him. I would _never_ hurt him. _Never._ "

Farid does not turn back, but steps away. He looks at the unconscious Master, looks at the way he struggles to breathe, looks at his pale skin, his flushed face. 

"The Emir is my responsibility," Farid says. "And by my life, I will punish those who have hurt him." At last he turns, glaring at the Doctor with cold fury. "And if that is you, I will hear you beg to your gods before you die."

But before Farid can go through with any threats, the doors open again, bringing Hakim, the court physician, and another guard, holding a wooden chest 

"Out of the way, out of the way," Hakim blusters, shooing them from the bedside. "The Emir must have room to breathe! And you must be quiet, I cannot concentrate with all this commotion. _Oh._ " He falters as he sees Mirza, who gives him a low, warning growl.

"Bow to her," the Doctor orders, straining against the guards. 

Hakim stares at him, affronted. "I bow to my Emir, not the Emir's pet!"

"She's more than his pet. If you touch the Master without her permission, she'll defend him. Show submission, and she'll let you help."

Hakim frowns, clearly insulted at the prospect. His meetings with the Master have been infrequent and formal, as the Master has little use for him personally. But Mirza knows his scent, and the Doctor is reasonably sure she will allow him close--if he shows his place.

Mirza growls again, louder this time, and it seems to be enough to break past Hakim's pride. Grudgingly, he lowers himself to his knees, and bows deeply, as he would to the Emir. After a hesitation, his accompanying guard does the same. Mirza stares at them, showing her teeth, and then gradually calms. 

When she has settled back to the Master's side, the Doctor nods. "It's safe," he tells them.

"Ridiculous nonsense," Hakim grumbles, but quietly, and keeps a wary watch on Mirza as he approaches the bed. He directs the guard to stand by the bed with the medical chest, and bends over the Master to inspect him. He presses a hand to the Master's forehead, his cheek. "Hmm. Pale skin, flushed cheeks. But cool to the touch." He frowns, and places his fingers on the Master's neck. After a minute, he puts his ear to the Master's chest, and frowns deeper. "Fast and irregular heart. I would think fever, but..." He shakes his head once, then looks at the Master's eyes, holding them open. "Pupils dilated."

Hakim straightens up, and turns to Farid. "Drugged, probably poisoned. Is there a witness?"

"There is a suspect," Farid says, and gestures to the Doctor. "Claims he found the Emir this way and called for the guards. A pathetic attempt to disguise his crime."

"Perhaps," Hakim says, and walks to where the Doctor is held. "Tell me what happened. In your own words, and be precise."

The Doctor takes in a deep breath, relieved that someone is finally _listening_ , and says: "The Emir was fine this morning. I left him to prepare his bath, and waited for him there. When he didn't arrive, I returned to find him. I discovered him in the garden, unconscious."

"He was alone?" Hakim asks.

"Yes, except for Mirza."

"I see," says Hakim. He turns to Farid. "I'm afraid that tells me little, except that it is not a slow-acting poison. There are many poisons that act quickly, and a quick-acting poison means the Emir will not last long without treatment. I must go and prepare a theriac for his chill. Wrap him with extra blankets and fill the braziers."

"Wait," the Doctor calls, as Hakim turns to leave. "It's not a chill!"

"Not a chill?" Hakim asks, baffled. "The Emir is freezing cold."

The Doctor shakes his head. "I can't explain, but it's a fever. He has a fever, you have to cool him down. Get ice from the yakhchal and make an icewater bath. It will help him, I promise, just listen!"

Hakim looks at him as if he is insane. He turns to Farid. "If he is not guilty, he is certainly mad," he says, and shakes his head. "I will return soon. Until then, keep him warm."

Farid nods, and with Hakim gone, sends orders to the servants. The Doctor struggles in frustration, begs Farid to listen.

"Quiet, you _filth_ ," Farid hisses.

"What is this? Why are you restraining that slave?"

Farid turns, and glares at the Shaykh, who stands in the doorway. "Because he has poisoned the Emir," accuses Farid.

The Shaykh blanches. "Are you certain of this?"

"Yes," Farid says, heatedly. Then falters. "No. But he is suspect. And he tried to sabotage the Emir's treatment."

"I tried to _help_ ," the Doctor growls, through clenched teeth.

"I should arrest you for that alone!" Farid warns him. "You will talk your way into your execution."

"We must all be calm," the Shaykh says, guiding Farid away from his prisoner. "I came for my appointment with the Emir, and now I find him in his bed with guards around him. What has happened?"

"Poison," Farid spits. "Only minutes ago. Hakim has gone to make a theriac, but we may have little time before..."

The Shaykh bows his head. "Yes," he says, sombrely. Then he looks up at the Doctor. "Does the slave protest his innocence?"

" _Yes_ ," the Doctor says, hope rising again. 

"And did anyone witness the poisoning? Do we know how it was delivered?"

"No to both," Farid says. "The slave found the Emir already unconscious."

The Shaykh looks thoughtful. "We should not be hasty in our accusations, for so great a crime," he decides. "I have seen the devotion of this slave, in worship of his master. I suspect he would sooner take his own life than deliver such a poison to the Emir."

"He may have been bribed," Farid counters. "And it would not be the first time a catamite has poisoned his master."

"It would not," the Shaykh agrees. "But most catamites do not worship their masters as if they are gods. If he is guilty, evidence will come to light."

Farid frowns, but relents. "Very well. But if there is evidence, I will find it _personally_."

Mirza suddenly starts, wide-eyed, and rests her paw lightly upon the Master's chest. The Master stirs on the bed, and Farid and the Shaykh move closer Mirza gives a low growl, but seems to understand that they are not a threat, and allows their approach. 

"Emir," the Shaykh says, taking the lead. "Be still. You have been poisoned Do you know who did this?"

The Master's eyes flutter open, and his lips open and close silently. Farid brings a cup of water to the Master's lips, and dribbles out a little onto his tongue. The Master swallows, coughs, and tries to push himself up. 

"You must be still," the Shaykh insists, pushing him back against the pillows.

"My slave," the Master moans. 

Farid looks shocked. "Is it him? Did he do this?"

"No," the Master mumbles. "Bring him. Must see him. Now." This last word he says with force, and it's enough to compel Farid to stand. The denial of the Doctor's guilt seems to be a disappointment to him, and he scowls as he orders the guards to release him. 

The Doctor hurries to the Master's side. He holds the Master's limp hand to his chest, and leans close. "Master," he says, choking on the word, managing a broken smile. "Effendim."

"Ushaq," the Master mumbles, barely conscious but somehow reaching out with his eyes. So much pain in his eyes, and hope, and reassurance.

"Listen to me," the Master rasps to the room, as loudly as he can. "I have heard your words. My slave is innocent. Trust him, follow him, and he will find the truth."

"But Emir," Farid protests.

"Follow him!" the Master commands, and then shudders, and gasps, writhing on the bed.

"Emir," the Shaykh calls, alarmed. "Emir!"

The Master's eyes open, strained and full of tears. He looks to the Doctor, and for a moment they are alone, for a moment everything else fades away. 

"I love you," the Doctor whispers, trying not to cry.

The Master struggles to speak, his eyes full of emotion. A whispered "I'm sorry" is all he can manage, and his body falls limp. 

"He is unconscious again," the Shaykh says, sadly. "But that does seem to settle the matter. Don't you agree, Farid?"

"Yes," Farid agrees, reluctantly. 

No doubt he's disappointed to lose his prime suspect. But the Emir's word cannot be questioned. The Doctor silently thanks him for waking up long enough to save him, so the Doctor will be able to return the favour.

The Doctor is startled by the Shaykh, who puts a reassuring hand on his arm "Hakim will help him," the Shaykh says, pitying him. "If it is God's will that our Emir survive..."

The Doctor nods, but the pain in his hearts only grows greater. Somehow it's worse, to have had the Master back for those brief moments, and to lose him again. He touches the Master's feverish cheek. Time Lord physiology doesn't mix well with human medicine at the best of times, something he knows from painful personal experience. He can't leave the Master alone to be at Hakim's unknowing mercy. The theriac he is preparing could have hundreds of ingredients--harmless to a human, but any one of them might be toxic to a Time Lord. But the poisoner, whoever he is, must be tracked down before he tries again. Or she. The Doctor glances around the room, knowing he cannot trust anyone here. The servants, the court... all of them are suspect. The infamies of court intrigue, almost as rife with backstabbing as the Gallifreyan High Council. 

The problem with being in charge, he reflects, is that your enemies always know where to find you. And a target that isn't moving is so much easier to hit.

The Doctor realises that the Shaykh has moved away, and that he and Farid are arguing in low tones. The Doctor does not turn, but listens.

"Let him feel useful," the Shaykh insists. 

"He will be in the way," replies Farid, impatiently. "I do not care how much that catamite slave loves the Emir. He is a useless idiot."

"The Emir gave him authority, no matter how vague. And he's not dead yet. Until that time..."

Farid harrumphs. "Fine. Let him search. But he will have none of my men. I will not have him wasting their time."

Relieved, the Doctor turns back to the Master. He wonders how the Master manages to rule over all of these people, manages to do it and be saner than the Doctor has ever known him. Maybe it helps him, grounds him. The Master has always sought power, just as the Doctor has always fled from it. But perhaps it was not the seeking of the thing that he needed, but the having. 

If the Doctor had it his way, they would find the TARDIS, and he would take the Master away from here. Away from poisoners and intrigue and responsibility. They would escape from this place and spend eternity amongst the stars. Just the two of them, alone, the way they'd imagined, the way they'd dreamed it would be. The way it was supposed to be. The way they'd promised.

But he can't do that. Maybe he could find the TARDIS, if he really looked; maybe he could use her to cure the Master. But if they ran, they'd never stop. They would lose this place, and maybe lose each other. The Master made this place, built it to last. Not a trick, not a mirage like Castrovalva, like the Paradox, but something real. The Doctor knows he can't abandon it, not as long as the Master is still breathing, not as long as it can be saved. 

He can do this. He can save them all. That's what he does. 

He gives the Master's hand one last squeeze, and he stands. Back straight, head held high. He already knows what to do.

"Shaykh," he addresses. "You have heard the Emir's words. Under his authority, I am charged to find the truth of what has happened. That is what I intend to do. I ask for your support."

The Shaykh blinks at him, surprised by this lowly slave's sudden conviction "You may have it," he replies, unable to hide the trace of amusement in his voice. He might accept the Emir's words, but that does not mean he has much faith in this slave's ability to carry them out.

Before the Doctor can even ask, Farid gives his own answer. "I will not waste my men on you. Do as you will, and stay out of my way. I will find the truth myself." With a disgusted sneer, he turns away to give orders to his guards. Two guards are posted by the door, and the rest leave with Farid.

"I must take my leave," the Shaykh says, apologetically. "I will pray for our Emir's survival."

"Of course," the Doctor replies. As much as he would like someone to offer to help him, he's better off doing this on his own. But as the Shaykh is leaving, the Doctor stops him.

"Please tell Massoud to come here at once. I have questions for him."

"Very well," the Shaykh says, with the smallest of bows. Then he leaves, shaking his head in bemusement.

Massoud must have been nearby, because it's barely a minute before he arrives. His face is flushed, as if he has been running, and he immediately looks to the Master, his concern evident. Anger flashes in his eyes, as he sees the Master's condition. He turns to the Doctor.

"What do you want?" Massoud asks, impatiently. "I do not care to be summoned by a _slave_."

"I am a slave," the Doctor replies, calmly. "But the Emir has given me authority to find who has harmed him. I have questions that you must answer."

Massoud crosses his arms. "I would think you a liar, if the Shaykh had not said the same. Very well. Ask what you will."

"The Emir has been poisoned. That poison must have been delivered to this room between the Emir's return last night, and the running of his bath this morning. Who prepared his food and wine?"

"The Emir's cook, as always. And his assistants."

"Are they trustworthy?"

Massoud shrugs. "They are paid well, and loyal. But all food is tested before it is brought to the Emir. Makeda would have been ill, if there was poison. She is not."

"And she brings it directly from the kitchens? No one else touches it?"

"She also brings that strange drink, the coffee." Massoud gives a dark, unpleasant smile. "Perhaps the Emir should not have been so trusting of his... _favourites_."

The Doctor has the distinct feeling that Massoud is accusing him, as much as Makeda.

"I will tell you this: whoever did this is a fool. When an Emir dies, it is a hard time. No servant or slave should rush to bring death upon himself and to us all." Massoud leans closer. "Memories are fresh, and though this Emir did not kill, a man who becomes Emir through such means will not be so kind." 

The Doctor says nothing, but feels the weight of responsibility settle heavier on his shoulders. He must not merely save the Master. So many lives are at risk.

Massoud straightens. "Whoever did this is a poor fool, or a rich one. And what hope does a slave have against the rich? We must all prepare for the worst."

"The worst may come, but it is not here yet," the Doctor says, soberly. "Bring Makeda to me."

Massoud nods. "I will bring her. But the Emir will not be pleased if you partake of her without his permission..." He gives the Doctor a meaningful glance.

The Doctor looks down at himself, blushes, and pulls his robe closed tight. "Tell her to wait at the door."

Massoud smirks, and heads off to obey. He closes the door behind him, and the Doctor huffs in relief, runs his hands back through his damp, mussed hair. He glances over to the unconscious Master. "This is all your fault," he accuses, an old, fond joke. But it doesn't feel very funny today.

The Doctor turns toward the wardrobe, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No wonder no one was taking him seriously. If he's going to do this, he needs to do it right. Look the part. And look less like... well, like a recently-shagged, mostly naked slave.

He strips off his robe, and tries not to think of all the things the Master would say if he was awake. His teases, his jibes, his dark glances. It hurts to think about them, to think they might never...

But he can't think of never. He will fix this. He _will_. There isn't another option.

He touches his shoulder, his fingertips brushing the scar there. The Master's brand, the punishment for his fear, his self-pity, his pain. He will never forget how that fire burned, searing him, whiting out his mind, and the coals of it burning a fever inside him for days on end. He looks at his reflection and the scar seems like such a small thing, the lines clear but faded. His chest feels tight at the thought of it fading away, of losing that. Slipping through his fingers, like so much already has.

Deep breath. Out. His hands unclench. He doesn't look at the bed, but can't look anywhere else. Makeda is coming, he needs to get dressed.

He knows what to do. He's done this before.

He moves automatically, through the robes in the wardrobe, in the chest. He follows instinct, lets the clothes find him. A deep blue robe and slippers, the colour of the Master's Emir, the colour of the TARDIS. Perhaps not a coincidence. Tiraz bands with golden thread, and the praising words: _Blessings to Lord Jahandar, the sun of wisdom, ever righteous, ever victorious_ A long tunic and shalwars, a lighter tone, but a sash of the same deep blue and gold. 

The Master's sword, of finest eastern steel, a scimitar bearing the inscription of the Emir's name: _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil._ Keeper of the World, Child of the Sun, Son of the Stars. As he holds it, he feels the obligation of these words, the words the Master chose. And he knows that there are no accidents, no coincidences in the Master's choices. Not here.

The sword feels good in his hand. He knows he will use it. 

He is the Doctor, and he is not the Doctor. He is not what he was, but he is still himself. He takes the Master and makes him a part of him, keeps him safe within. Makes his signs and words a shield to protect them both, on this day.

He faces the wall as he dresses, hands steady though he wants them to tremble. He wraps his turban carefully, neatly, used to wrapping it around the Master's head and not his own. His hand pauses over the box of turban pins, and then he chooses: he reaches for a pin of onyx, half-mourning in his hearts, but his fingers push past it, and catch on one of gold and brilliant yellow topaz, arranged in three leaves like a vine. He slides it into place, and turns to face the mirror.

A stranger looks back, a stranger who is not a stranger, and something flips inside him, and he sees himself. The familiarity of it calms him, steadies him. His nerves seem to thrum with energy, as they do after each regeneration. It is as if he has always been this way, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. And yet... and yet something is missing. Something important.

He touches his bare throat, and knows, feels the nakedness of it. He can only promise himself that the Master will be alive to put it right.

 _The cup_ , he thinks, and grabs a clean cloth, and hurries out to the garden. It's still there, tucked back within the foliage. He sniffs deep, and frowns, still unable to recognise the melange of poisons. He sops up the remaining drops of wine, wiping the cup clean, and brings it back to the bedroom. Sets it by the Master's bedside, and pockets the cloth. Mirza churrs at him, tilting her head in confusion. But she sniffs his fingers, and rubs her cheek against them, recognising him and marking him as her own. He scratches her chin and smiles sadly.

Someone wanted the Master dead. The Doctor thinks of the Master's wine-soaked kisses, and wonders if he was supposed to die, too. If that's why the poisons were so strong. And wonders who would know about those kisses.

There is a knock on the door, and he calls for Makeda to enter. When she does, both are taken aback. Her smiles and teases have vanished, replaced by fear, anger, determination. She is preparing to survive. He suspects that she has already packed, and begun to make arrangements for escape.

"I did not recognise you!" she says, cautiously. She steps close and her fingers brush his robes. "You're looking very handsome," she says, but it's not a compliment.

The Doctor offers a fond smile, but even that fades. "I won't let them harm you, or Melia. I promise."

She gives him a tolerant look. "That is very kind, but I think you have let your outfit go to your head. When he dies--" She looks towards the bed, and she betrays a flinch at the sight of the Master's slack, pale features. For a moment, the Doctor sees the grief she must feel, and knows it as an echo of his own. 

"He's not going to die," the Doctor says, sharper than he intended. 

Makeda steps back, and he lets her have her distance. "What do you want from me?" she asks, coolly, her mask of composure firmly back in place.

"I need your help. I need you to remember." He grabs the cup and holds it out to her. She takes it, frowning.

"Is this...?" she asks, warily.

"Tell me everything about it. Where it was stored, who handled it, the wine that went in, and anyone who touched it before you brought it in."

She shakes her head. "It could not have been poisoned. I drank it myself, on the way to you. You are wrong."

The Doctor meets her eyes, and there's no guile there. He knows when a human is lying, and she isn't. She had no reason to poison the Master, gains nothing from it. But still the poison was there.

" _Think_ ," he tells her. "Which guards were at the door? Was anyone else with you?"

"No one touched the cup," she insists. "And it was the same as always, Ruslan and Jamal, and of course Farid."

"And you saw no one else?" the Doctor asks, urgently. 

"I said I did not," she says, baffled and annoyed by his insistence. 

The Doctor takes the cup back, and stares at it. "Do you know him well, Farid?"

"Well enough."

"Has he been acting strange recently? Has something been bothering him, or has he been different in some other way?"

Makeda thinks. "It is hard to say. He often has moods. He does not share his reasons for them."

The Doctor reaches up to run his hand through his hair, but is stopped by the turban. It's possible Farid is a suspect, or either of the two guards; any of them could have easily dropped the poison into the cup, without Makeda realising. The perfect opportunity, and it would be so easy to shift the blame to Makeda. The Doctor himself even suspected her, if only for a moment. 

But would they have a motive? Perhaps not. But there could be someone else, a backer who persuaded one or all of them into action. Someone rich, as Massoud suspects. Someone with something to gain from the vacuum of power. 

But the Doctor needs more. He needs evidence, a confession, anything. Approaching them directly won't get him anywhere, and there are too many suspects on the council and nothing definite to use against them.

He thanks Makeda and dismisses her. He sits by the Master's side, and touches his cheek. Fever, high for a Time Lord, cold to a human. Worse, no sign yet of a healing coma. The poisons may be preventing it, and if so, the Master is painfully vulnerable. The Doctor leans down and kisses the Master on the forehead.

"I'll fix this," he promises. "Just stay with me. Keep fighting."

He hopes the Master can hear him.

Before he leaves, he turns to Mirza. "Stay with him," he tells her. "Don't let anyone touch him, and definitely not Hakim. I'm going to try to convince him not to use that theriac. Rassilon knows what it would do to our Master." He scritches her ear, and she shows her understanding by draping herself over the Master's legs. The Doctor wonders if the Master changed her, opened up her mind. He wonders.

§

Hakim is in his room, poring over a heavy, old book and tipping something green into a small pot. He looks up in surprise, and just as Makeda, takes a moment to recognise the Doctor. And when he does, he straightens up, and looks at the Doctor warily.

"What is this?" Hakim asks, looking the Doctor up and down.

"I need you to listen," the Doctor says, with what he hopes comes across as firm but reassuring. "You can't give the Emir the theriac."

Hakim shakes his head. "What are you doing here? Why are you in disguise?"

The Doctor blinks at him, then shakes his head. "This isn't a disguise."

"You were under arrest," Hakim continues, ignoring him. His brow furrows. "I hope you do not think that I will harbour an assassin!"

"I didn't--" the Doctor begins, exasperated, then stops himself. "This isn't about me. You have to understand--"

"Guard!" Hakim calls. "Guard!"

The Doctor sighs. "You don't have to do that."

Hakim glares at him. "Aren't you going to run, slave?"

"No," the Doctor says. He crosses his arms and waits for the nearest guard to arrive. 

It doesn't take long. The guard, Ruslan, bursts into the room, looks at Hakim, looks at the Doctor, and double-takes.

"I believe this is your fugitive," Hakim tells him, irritated by the whole matter.

"Um," Ruslan says, and then does an uncertain, faltering bow to the Doctor. "Is there a problem?" he asks, looking between them both.

"Him! The Emir's slave!" Hakim says, leaning over his low table and pointing at the Doctor. "His assassin!"

Ruslan shakes his head. "I'm sorry, sir. The slave was released."

Hakim leans back. "Released? What do you mean, released?"

"The Emir awoke, sir. He maintained that the slave was innocent, and gave him the authority to find the true assassin, sir."

Hakim gapes at him, and then shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth. 

"Thank you, Ruslan, you may go now," the Doctor says, evenly.

Ruslan nods and leaves, clearly relieved to be away from the both of them.

"They let you go," Hakim says, staring at the closing door, pale. "Then the true poisoner has not been found?"

"I will find him," the Doctor says, certain. "And I will bring him to justice."

"But the Emir..." Hakim begins, as if suddenly realising. "He is awake? How is this possible?"

"That's why I came," the Doctor says, focusing on Hakim again. "You can't give him the theriac. It won't help him."

"But if he is awake..."

The Doctor swallows against the tightness in his throat. "He is no longer awake."

Hakim meets his eyes for the first time. "But still alive."

"Yes."

Hakim nods to himself. He sets aside his tray of chemicals, and reaches for his tray of tea. He touches the pot to feel its warmth, then refills his cup. He reaches for the sugar, pauses, then takes a heavy spoonful. He stirs slowly, looking down into the gently steaming liquid.

"The Emir is like no one I have ever known. He is never sick, never ill. They say he is touched by God."

"Something like that," the Doctor says, with a crooked smile. He relaxes a little, relieved that Hakim is finally listening, or at least preparing to. He seems to be a good man, and the Doctor could use an ally.

Hakim sets down his spoon. "But he is ill now. Perhaps God's touch has left him."

"No," the Doctor says, strongly. "I can save him. I _will_ save him. But I need your help."

" _My_ help? But you have refused the theriac..."

The Doctor shakes his head. "The theriac is--it's clumsy, it's throwing everything at the wall to see if it will stick. And there's no telling if it might make things worse." He looks up at the walls, at the rows of books and colourful bottles. He walks over and drags his finger across the titles. Translations of old texts, Hunayn ibn Ishaq's editions of Galen, al-Majusi's _Complete Art of Medicine_ , a set of Jabir, a whole shelf full of Rhazes... 

He looks up at the bottles, the dozens of minerals and powders of the time, ointments and pigments and crystals. "What we need is information. We need to identify the poisons. Find the cause, find the cures. We can still save him."

There is the sound of ceramic against metal, as Hakim sets down his empty cup. He leans back, sighing. "Impossible. Without a sample we cannot even identify, much less concoct some cure."

"But if one existed," the Doctor turns, insisting. 

"Yes, if one existed," Hakim relents. He rubs at his eyes, and looks up at the Doctor. He looks tired, strained, but there is a look in his eyes that says he is starting to believe this slave, believe that the Emir can be saved. "Maybe you are right. Perhaps God's touch has not left him, and that is why he still breathes. Stronger men, greater men, have died from poison before they could set down their cups."

The Doctor reaches into his pocket, and holds out the wine-stained cloth. "Will this be enough?"

Hakim stares at it. Swallows. There's sweat on his forehead, although the room is cool. "Yes," he says. "It should have been."

The Doctor opens his mouth to go on about extracting the sample from the cloth, about which of the small, colourful bottles they could use to identify the poisons, about how many tests they could manage to run, about the availability of cures. But he stops, because a cold, hard feeling has settled in the pit of his stomach. 

"Enough for two?" the Doctor asks, quietly, somber.

Hakim nods. Looks away, pressing his fingers over his mouth, as if to quiet his tongue.

The Doctor takes a deep breath, lets it out. Now is not the time for anger. Revenge is a distraction. The cure is what matters.

"It's not too late," he says, as gently as he can. "We can undo this. Just tell me what you did."

Hakim shakes his head, once, sharply. "There is no cure. A few minutes of pain, and then death. That is the only end."

The Doctor slams his hands against the table. " _Tell me what you did._ "

But Hakim is silent. The Doctor turns from him, furious with frustration, with impatience. He reaches up to grab at his hair, but drops his hands to his sides, hands curled into fists. He stares at the books. Rhazes and Jabir wrote books on poisons, hundreds of poisons, mundane and obscure. It would be pointless to read through every one, to guess what deathly concoction Hakim made of the worst of them. He reaches out and grabs another, and holds the book right in Hakim's face.

"Al-Ruhawi. Ethics of the Physician. Well-thumbed, by the look of it." The Doctor drops the book down in front of Hakim, and leans over him. "He described physicians as the guardians of souls and bodies. The Emir trusted you, and you betrayed him."

Hakim's face is pale, and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. 

"Look at me," the Doctor commands. "Look at me. Tell me what you gave him."

And then something occurs to the Doctor, something he'd seen but not understood, something that niggled at the back of his mind. The sugar. In this time, refined sugar is too expensive for a court physician. He grabs the empty teacup and sniffs. Poisons. Not the same as in the wine, but deadly enough.

"I'm sorry," Hakim murmurs, with the quiet of one who knows he is dying. "I cannot help you."

The Doctor puts down the cup. He sits on the edge of the table, and sees the unnatural pallor of Hakim's face, sees the labour of his breathing. The Doctor mourns for him, briefly, and for his knowledge.

"I did it for them, you see," Hakim explains, confessing his sins. "My debts would have ruined them, destroyed our name. Please, do not tell them what happened. My family must not know what I have done."

"Who paid you?" the Doctor asks, low and urgent. "You didn't do this alone. Who else is involved? Tell me, please! There isn't much time."

Hakim shakes his head, tears in his eyes. "I cannot betray them. It would all be for... for nothing." He groans with pain, clutches at his stomach.

"Ruslan!" the Doctor yells. "Ruslan!"

Hakim doubles over, shuddering against the pain. He chose a quick death, but not an easy one. Perhaps as punishment for himself, or in atonement for his guilt. The Doctor catches Hakim as he falls to the side, and holds him in his arms. 

"Save him," Hakim rasps, every word strained with effort. "If you can. If.. if God wills it."

The door opens, and Ruslan re-enters, and stops, shocked by the scene. 

"Help him," the Doctor commands, urgently. Ruslan hurries around the table, and together they lay Hakim to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Hakim murmurs, his hand wrapping tightly around the Doctor's wrist. "May God forgive me. May God forgive me. May God--"

His teeth clench against his words as his body spasms, as his muscles tense and twitch, contorting his limbs. He makes a guttural noise, animal and desperate with pain. And then, with one last shudder, it is over. Hakim lies dead, silent, still, his hand yet clenching the Doctor's wrist with bruising force.

The Doctor and Ruslan crouch over the body, frozen in stunned silence. The Doctor moves first, carefully extracting his wrist from Hakim's grip. He lays the offending arm down upon the floor, and stands, and turns away. 

"What is this?" Ruslan asks, following him to his feet. "What happened?"

The Doctor wants to tell him, but he can't. For Hakim's sake, and for his own. "His heart," the Doctor lies. "The stress of finding a cure for the Emir. It was too much for an old man."

Ruslan looks bewildered and uncertain, but the explanation is easy to accept. The Doctor has seen this in humans so many times, but it always surprises him, just a little. The way a simple lie smooths away the fear and worry, the way ritual and habit take over. Humans are so rarely prepared for the truth of things.

"Take care of him," the Doctor says, stepping away. "I must return to the Emir."

"Yes, sir," Ruslan says, absently. The last thing the Doctor sees of them is Ruslan reverently wiping the tears from Hakim's face.

At least he knows now that Ruslan couldn't be a part of this. Not the way he reacted, the innocence of him. The Doctor quickens his pace, and nods to Jamal, the remaining guard, as he walks back to the Master. The Doctor mentally adds Jamal to the list; as Makeda said, he was on guard when the poison was delivered. 

§


	13. Chapter 13

The Doctor closes the doors behind himself, and leans back against them, as if to hold back the world. Frustration wells within him, and he pushes it down. He hates this, hates this loss, this death, this human destruction threatening--

He looks to the Master, and none of it matters. Nothing else matters but the man in the bed, lying pale and flushed, and far too still. Mirza perches above him, alternating between worried and protective. She gives a little growl as the Doctor approaches, then settles, knowing he is no threat. 

The Doctor takes the Master's hand and holds it tight. _I'll fix this_ , he promises, silently. _I'm sorry. I'll fix this._ He squeezes tight, almost hearing the Master complain about his grip, and then blinks his eyes clear of tears. Now is not the time. He has to find whoever is responsible for this, and stop them. He has to keep the Master safe, and find a cure, and heal him. At least only one of them is officially impossible. He's always been good with things everyone else says are impossible.

"I need your help," he tells Mirza. She looks back at him, tilting her head as if she is listening. Her eyes have such intelligence. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out with his free hand and touches her head, as if to pet her rough fur, to soothe her where he cannot soothe himself.

_Oh._

His mouth hangs open, his breathing rapid, as he suddenly sees double. Not double vision, but double perspective, both his own and Mirza's. The current of her senses, her thoughts, flows like electricity through him and into the Master, as if he has connected a circuit. 

_Oh._

"Good girl," he manages, not dropping his hand. He scratches behind her ear, and feels the low pleasure of it in himself. She closes her eyes, and his own close in time, and open as slowly. He opens his hand and rests his palm upon her forehead, and tells her to be still, and to his surprise she obeys. 

With her help, he can keep watch on the Master _and_ track down whoever is behind this. He can use this connection, use her eyes, her ears; it's the Master's connection, one that he must have cultivated for months, from the moment he first found her. He can't build something that strong without time, and time is the one thing he doesn't have. But he can use what's already there.

"Good girl," he murmurs, urging her closer. They both lean forward until their foreheads touch, the Doctor holding one hand on her head, one on the Master's hand. He finds the connection between himself and the Master, and between the Master and Mirza, and with a great effort drags them together, pushing hard until they join. It won't hold on its own--he will need to make a constant effort to keep it--but he won't need to touch Mirza to know her mind.

He releases her with a sharp exhalation, and after a moment's wobble, the connection holds. He can see her looking at him with curiosity, confusion. And then indifference, as she feels sadness towards the Master, anger towards whatever has hurt him, and hunger, both for dinner and for blood. He can taste the memory of blood, of the rip of sinew, the steaming heat and softness of the insides of a gazelle. His mouth waters, but it makes his stomach turn. 

But her memory of her meal transitions to the memory of the Master hunting beside her, spattered with blood, sharing in her joy. And then the Doctor feels from her such sadness, such mourning pain, and it resonates with his own; she begins to chirp to him, calling, begging for the Master to return to her, and the Doctor feels himself sob, feels the sudden tears on his cheeks. Her emotions are raw, untempered, and threaten to overwhelm him. He partially shields his end of the connection, buffering himself from her grief.

He squeezes the Master's limp hand, and thinks of Ruslan, tearful over Hakim. It was too late to save Hakim, but it's not too late for the Master. It can't be too late. He has to save the Master. Save him so he won't have to mourn him.

 _Keep him safe_ , he tells her, thinking of the love of a mother for her cubs. _I will hunt._

Mirza bares her teeth, and he feels her vicious understanding. He tastes blood in his mouth, knows the promise of strong jaws clamped around a human neck, strangling the life from it. The Doctor's jaw aches, and he pushes back, _Not yet, not yet. First I must find our prey._

Mirza's growl lowers. She will wait, but not for long. If he fails, she will take the hunt herself.

"I know," he says, aloud. He squeezes the Master's limp hand one last time, and stands, turns away. He closes his eyes and sees himself standing, sees the Master, smells the sourness of Gallifreyan fever-sweat. Hears the distant voices beyond the room, the step-march of guards in the halls. Smells meat roasting in the kitchens, strange scents and spices and animals from the festival gathering. She will know a threat long before it enters the room That will have to be enough.

He leaves. 

The guards hesitate when he passes, after being so recently told he was the prime suspect. But the Emir's word is law, despite his delirium. They let him pass.

Jamal and Farid. One of them must have slipped the poison into the Master's cup. No one else had the opportunity. But neither of them would have anything to gain, except in bribery, as with Hakim, or some other personal favour. 

He's only a few steps away from the guards, and he turns on his heels and asks them, urgency creeping into his voice: "Farid. Where is he?"

The guards glance at each other, wary of the strange and suspect slave. Then one of them frowns, having decided that he has no time for this nonsense. "The Captain is none of _your_ concern. He has given orders."

"Stay out of his way, or we will be forced to restrain you," warns the second.

The Emir's word is, of course, only law as far as those around him choose to follow it. It's no surprise; the Doctor already knew he was on borrowed time. But he can't help but push his luck, just a bit. "Jamal about?" 

The first guard takes a warning step towards him, and the Doctor raises his hands. "Out of his way," he promises, stepping backwards, eager to keep running distance between them. "Absolutely. Pretend I'm not even here." He turns mid-stride and walks quickly away, not entirely paying attention to where he's going until he's five steps into the courtyard, and almost knocks over a man carrying heavy rolls of colourful cloth.

"Sorry, sorry," the Doctor says, stabilising the rolls as the man staggers. The man grunts and moves on without comment, obviously in a hurry. 

The courtyard is open to the elements, and overhead the sky is still heavy with grey clouds. But the chill air is banished by bonfires, and the gloom cannot overcome the vivid colours of the festival. A light frost decorates the raised tents, dyed all in red and orange, bordered with evergreen boughs and swathes of pine, and ornamented with glittering suns of gold and brass. For a moment, the warmth and joy of it overwhelms him, and he almost forgets.

Oh, _humans._

They bustle around him, carrying and cooking and building, helping and squabbling and playing. As he walks among them, he sees the familiar human lines: people grouping by class, gender, age, and mixing at the edges. He starts at the poorer section, tightly packed, and wends his way towards the purple and blue-toned tents of the rich. He is struck by the genuine shock and sorrow as news of the Emir's condition sinks in. Some hold their fear close, brows furrowed, watching the unknowing children play as they worry for what will come next. Some pray, alone or in small groups, for the Emir to be saved, for Allah or Mithra to bless him. Charms are hung, fragrant seeds crackle and pop as they are thrown into the bonfires, and the rich steam from winter stews competes with sharp, heavy incense. 

He makes his way through the high vaults of the diwan and pauses at the steps of the palace forecourt. Guests are arriving by the caravan, bold warlords armed to the hilt upon their heavily caparisoned horses, noblewomen peeking curiously through their diaphanous, sparkling veils from their richly decorated palanquins upon the finest of camels. Behind them follow armies of slaves and yet more camels bearing rare and precious gifts as tribute to their Emir, for on Mehregan the divine king shall give boons in exchange for fealty and fulfill his citizens' wishes, dispensing justice for the following year.

As the rich are ushered into the palace proper by Massoud and the court officials, the poor have set up camps of their own in the forecourt, bringing with them their own offerings, the bleating of sheep and goats rising over the anxious hum of the crowd. 

A woman's sobbing draws his focus, and he turns to see Khurshid comforting a peasant woman. Her skirts, which must have once been her pride, all bright colors and finery, are faded with age and wear, stained and ripped from her long journey. Her hands, deeply calloused and stained with dirt, are a sharp contrast against Khurshid's white robes.

"What shall become of us?" she sobs, weary and broken. "His mercy was our last hope."

Khurshid comforts her with a gentle hand. "My child, the Emir--" 

"Have we come so far for nothing?" she asks, anger rising, driving past her exhaustion. "We have lost our homes, our lands. Our souls cry out for justice! Without the Emir..." 

"There is still time, my child," he says, brushing her hair, making the coins in her cap tinkle. "He is still alive, still fighting for his people. He will return to us. We must have faith." 

"His grace our only hope, _Mobad._ " 

"And by the grace of Mazda, he is king." The morning light peeks through the clouds, and Khurshid glances up at the sky, then back at her, his smile warmed by the sun's rays. "It is the festival of Mithra's covenant. Like Mithra, the Emir has made a covenant with his people. And just as Mithra sees and hears all, he will be here to see and hear all who seek his presence." He seems lost in thought for a second, smiling. "He is sheltered by the wings of light, and soon he shall enfold all of us in their radiance. Do not be afraid, my child."

The Doctor turns away, throat tight with emotion. The sorrow he felt for the Master, for himself, has swollen, multiplied--for how he sees, for the first time, how truly loved the Master is here, how truly needed. All the people gathered here, this land and everything the Master has done for it. Even in his worship, even as he painted the frescoes on the minaret walls, never did he imagine they were anything but reflections of his own hearts, of his yearning. To the people, he imagined they were little more than propaganda. But as he looks across the courtyard and sees the true concern on people's faces, the love they have for their Emir, he realises that for them, the Master truly _is_ the god-king of the frescoes, providing them guidance, abundance and shelter under his wings. Mindless tyranny has always come easy for the Master, but this is unlike him--here, he has ruled with wisdom, maturity and patience; given his people great gifts and earned their love. He sees Polyeides sitting with a child from one of the Master's schools, explaining to him the mechanisms behind the water clock in the courtyard He sees a farmer unloading heavy bags of grain off his donkeys, praising the new irrigation systems and how his family no longer has to suffer hunger. He closes his eyes and feels Mirza gently nuzzling the Master's face, a soft, concerned noise issuing from his throat. 

He was too possessed by his own sorrow, too blinded by his own fear to see the whole picture, until now. While he was still trapped in his own suffering, the Master was busy rebuilding and tending the land, just as he rebuilt and tended the Doctor. And now as the Master lies near death, the Doctor knows it's about more than just the two of them. He'll find the people who did this, not just to avenge the Master, but because he has a responsibility A responsibility towards all the Master has built and nurtured in this land, towards everything the Master has built and nurtured in him. It's not just about saving any world right now, it's saving a world they've built together. 

It's about saving their home.

His attention is drawn again by a raucous laugh, incongrous with the tense mood. A short investigation finds Firuz to be the source, laughing as he slaps Bahram's back. Bahram looks more long-suffering than amused.

"You worry too much," Firuz declares, wrapping his arm around Bahram's shoulder. 

"Ever the optimist," Bahram returns, dryly. "Even as a merchant, you should be wiser in your politics. Your fortunes may not always be so great."

"Fortunes _are_ my politics, my friend. Make people rich, and you will have allies wherever you need them. One Emir or another, all of them will want my silks."

"No one is so useful as to be irreplaceable," Bahram warns. He extracts Firuz's arm from his shoulder, and steps away, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I have business to attend to. I am not content to wait for others to decide my fate."

"Bahram!" Firuz calls, but Bahram is already away.

The Doctor tenses, feeling Mirza's awareness rise within him. His eyes follow Bahram as he retreats, and the image is impossibly sharp. He seems to be able to see each movement before it happens, and wonders if Mirza's extreme senses are colliding with his time sense. He feels her instinct, her experience, urging him to follow.

_He has strayed from the flock._

With a cheetah's grace, the Doctor slinks through the crowd. It parts for him like long grass. He hides behind it until Bahram disappears through a doorway. The Doctor scents the air, and recognises the distant musk of horses, the grassy smell of hay. The palace stables, out beyond the palace walls. He follows his prey.

§

If Bahram suspects he is being followed, he does not betray it. The Doctor stalks him at a safe distance, only closing the gap once Bahram walks into the dimness of the stable building. His presence here is unusual, moreso for the absence of any servants. A stall near the entrance is empty, and the Doctor hides inside, and listens as Bahram's heavy footsteps move away, muffled by the strewn hay. They slow, then stop, and the Doctor stills, listening, listening.

The movement of leather, of a hand rifling through a bag. "I've brought something for you," Bahram says.

A clandestine meeting? Could Bahram be behind the poisoning, or one of a group of conspirators? He would be poised to claim the Emirship for his own, and few if any would have the military straight to stand against him. The Doctor tenses, feeling Mirza's hunter instincts rise. Any evidence, any proof that Bahram is guilty...

A horse snorts, hooves thudding against the thick straw bedding. 

"Did you think I forgot? I am a man of my word."

Something about the tone of Bahram's voice makes the Doctor hesitate. Curious, he peers out, and sees Bahram's hand in the bag, sees him pull it out, carrying something large and dark...

Carrots. Purple carrots. 

"There's a good girl," Bahram coos, his stern exterior melting into babbles as he feeds and pets his favorite horse. "There's a beautiful girl. Want another carrot? Yes you do, yes you do!"

The Doctor shakes his head, ducking back inside the stall. Ridiculous. And a dead end. He slumps against the wall, bemused at himself as much as at Bahram. He feels Mirza's thoughts retreat, annoyed at the denial of her expected victory. 

Bahram does not stay long, perhaps worried about his soft spot being discovered. The Doctor waits for his footsteps to fade, and then leaves the stall He has one foot out the door when a clatter of metal makes him start, and he jumps back to his hiding place.

Someone curses, and the voice is familiar. There's a thin slat in the stable wall, and the Doctor peers through. He sees a flash of scarred bronze that resolves into a round shield, hoisted up off the floor by a guard. The guard turns, and sits down on the hay with a thump and a clatter of chain mail. The Doctor recognises Jamal, who leans his arms upon the standing shield and blows his breath out in a huff.

"Give," Jamal says, holding out his arm and making a grabbing motion. 

There's a swigging sound, and shuffling steps in the hay. Farid sits down next to Jamal with a grunt, and hands him a bottle of wine, already half-gone. 

Jamal takes a long swig. "That's the good stuff," he says, licking his lips 

"Remind me why I am wasting it on you," Farid grumbles. He reaches for the bottle, but Jamal pulls it out of reach. 

"Because I'm the only one who will put up with you anymore," Jamal reminds him.

Farid scowls at him, then slumps back against the wooden wall. "I am the Captain. I could order all of my men to put up with me."

"You would know the difference," Jamal replies. But he takes a last swig and passes the bottle back. Farid takes it but doesn't drink, just rubs the mouth of it against his lip. 

Lacking the bottle, Jamal toys with the shield, lifting it up and turning it in his hands. He runs his fingers along the deepest scars, left behind from some battle or other. Then he tosses it aside and leans back, elbows in the hay. "Drink it or hand it back," he says.

Farid gives a soft grunt of a laugh, and takes a long drink, his throat bobbing as he drains the bottle. He hands it back to Jamal, who scowls at the dregs, and tosses the bottle into a corner.

"You didn't use to be such a bastard," Jamal says, not hiding his annoyance 

"I used to be a lot of things," Farid replies, sourly. 

"Not that again," Jamal groans. "It's been three years. At least have the decency to let me get drunk before I listen to your moaning."

Farid goes quiet, then looks at Jamal askance. He starts to speak, stops himself, and then: "What if I could get you all the wine you wanted? You'd listen to me then?"

"Yes, and all the gold in Baghdad. Are you planning on getting rich?"

"Something like that," Farid says, looking away again. 

Jamal straightens up, looks at Farid with more attention. "Are you planning on doing something stupid?"

Farid keeps staring into the distance. "You were always looking out for me, when we were young. Two years older, and I thought you knew everything."

"I still know more than you," Jamal says. "The only reason I'm not your Captain is that I'm not a prettyboy like you."

Jamal says it like it's an old joke between them, a bit of affection, but Farid doesn't take it well. He turns to Jamal and says, sharply, "I was more than _that_ , more than some whore for his harem. I was more than just a _guard_. I _mattered_."

"Hey, hey," Jamal says, holding up his hand.

"I shared his _cups_ ," Farid says, voice quivering with anger, suddenly on the brink of tears. "I never left his side, and every night I lay beside him. I was his and he... and he loved--" He sobs, and swallows back the sound. His fists are clenched, knuckles white. "And now," he says, low and rough. "Now I am nothing. A petty foot soldier."

"Farid," Jamal says, leaning forward, voice gentle. "You are not nothing. You are my brother. You are Captain of the Ghilman."

"None of that matters," Farid whispers.

Jamal frowns at him. "Even the fact that you are my brother? For three years I have listened to you mourn the old Emir. For the first year it spoke to his memory. For the second, it spoke to your honour. Now it just speaks to your selfishness."

"I will not give up his memory for the sake of that... that _impostor_!" Farid snarls. "He is nothing compared to my Emir. He is _nothing_."

"Yet we both swore allegiance to him," Jamal counters. "We pledged our lives and our souls to him. Was that a lie?"

"No," Farid says, certain and then faltering. "In my grief, I was deceived. He is not what I thought him to be."

"He did not choose you," Jamal says, knowingly. "That was his sin, was it not? To take another to his bed, to his cups? You hoped everything would be as it was, that nothing would change. But things always change."

"They change because they are made to change. Because there are those who do not fear action, no matter what the consequences."

Jamal gives him a long, considering look. "What have you done?" he asks, quiet, sober.

"Not enough," Farid says, his hand shifting to the hilt of his sword, almost unconsciously. "I have to finish what I've started." He turns to Jamal, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "For memory. For honour."

He stands up suddenly, full of dark determination. Jamal struggles to his feet, eyes widening with realisation, but Farid is quicker. In a blink his sword is unsheathed, and the point of it has settled at Jamal's throat. 

"Face the wall," Farid orders, quietly. "Call for help and I will kill you, even though you are my brother."

Jamal slowly turns, his open hands raised in surrender. "Whatever you have done, it is not too late," he offers. 

"It is too late," Farid replies. He holds the point of his sword to the back of Jamal's neck, and reaches down and takes the abandoned shield from the floor. In a swift move he drops his sword and slams the shield down on Jamal's head with the full force of his arms. Jamal collapses into the hay, unconscious. He drops the shield over Jamal as if leaving it as a final gift, takes up his sword, sheathes it, and marches purposefully out of the stables.

The Doctor hurries around the wall. He checks Jamal's pulse, and finds it reassuringly present. Farid. It was Farid who poisoned the wine. Farid who betrayed his Emir. And now it appears he is determined to finish the job, with his bare hands if necessary. He has to be stopped, but who will believe his word against Farid's? 

The Doctor gently pats Jamal's cheek, hoping to wake him, but to no avail. He doesn't have the time to wait for Jamal to wake up and corroborate his story, so he can convince the other guards of the truth. He has no allies he can rely on, no one except Mirza. _Mirza_. He reaches out to her mind, and shouts to her _danger, danger_ , showing the image of Farid, sword in hand. He feels her hackles raise, hears her low, warning growl. She bares her teeth at the empty room with a hiss.

The Doctor runs after Farid, hoping he will not be too late.

He follows Farid back towards the castle. The Doctor can't see him at first, but once he does, it's hard to resist running up and grabbing the man. But Farid is captain of the bodyguard, and there is little doubt as to the fate of any slave who trespassed upon him. He takes solace in Mirza's presence, her fierce guarding. If they can catch Farid in the act, sword drawn against the Emir, that will be enough evidence against him.

As the Doctor closes the distance between them, he slows his pace, hanging back out of sight. For a moment, he is afraid Farid has spotted him, and he ducks out of sight behind a wall. He counts to thirty in his head, and then peeks around, just in time to catch Farid turning a corner. The Doctor hurries cautiously after him, but when he turns the corner, he stops, confused. It's a dead end, an empty corner by the castle's inner wall, overgrown with neglected climbing roses. 

There's nowhere for Farid to hide here, and he couldn't have doubled back. That leaves only one option. The Doctor walks along the wall, probing the stone, looking for any signs of disturbance. 

Red rose petals, littering the ground. He picks one up. It's crushed, and the faint rose scent is still fresh. Gingerly, he pulls the heavy, thorned vines aside, and is rewarded with the sight of an old door, and footprints in the dirt. There's always a secret door.

The door swings inward with a slow creak, and with daylight at his back, he can see stone steps leading down into an underground chamber. He walks slowly down, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, and the grey shapes of support columns and sacks appear. There are no windows here, no lamps, and the blackness stretches away from the pale circle of light around him. 

He has more than sight. He stills, listens. Breathing, soft, stifled. Farid, hiding, or preparing to strike? And then another sound, the brush of heavy cloth against stone. His concentration is jarred by the distant laughter of a woman, the running footsteps of children from above, the low burble of conversation. The harem is above them.

He almost doesn't lunge away in time as Farid lunges from behind a pillar, sword flashing in the light as it swings for the Doctor's neck. The Doctor feels the breath of it against his skin as he falls back, struggling to unsheath his own. 

They fight, swords clashing, glinting in the darkness of the room. In skill they are fairly well-matched, but beneath the elegance of Farid's style there is an unmistakeable brutality. He fights like a man who lives to see the end of his battles.

Their swords meet, catch. The Doctor leans forward. "We don't have to do this," he urges. "It's not too late. He's still alive."

"After I'm done with you," Farid hisses, "that mistake will be rectified."

Farid shoves forward, freeing his sword. The Doctor finds his stance again, and blocks Farid's blows.

"I thought you were loyal to the Emir," the Doctor says, a little breathless. Farid's pace is merciless, barely leaving him room to do more than defend. 

"My Emir is _dead_ ," Farid says, bitterly. "I will serve no _pretender_."

The Doctor jumps out of the way of a vicious swing, and then barely ducks in time as a second sword whistles above him, knocking his turban to the ground. Better his turban than his head, he thinks, and spins to face his attacker.

Vahid. _Interesting._

Both men lunge at him, and the Doctor jumps back even as he blocks them. It's tough work fighting two at once, but it's hardly the first time he's done it, and he can recall at least one spectacular bout where he stopped six guards at once, mostly by letting them run into each other instead of him.

"Where did you learn to fight, dervish?" Farid sneers, a hint of surprise betrayed in his voice. He's impressed.

"Oh, here and there," the Doctor replies, blocking Vahid's blow by jumping around a pillar. "Flynn gave me a few tricks." Vahid's swordwork is sloppy, reckless. He's in too much of a hurry for the killing blow, and lacks the skill to achieve it. All study and no experience. Probably never fought beside a real soldier in his life, and so he never learned how to stay out of the way.

Some false parries to lead him on, and the Doctor has Vahid tripping over Farid's feet, and the two of them cursing each other as they fumble. He takes the opportunity to step backwards, away from the revealing light. In the darkness, he can adjust to see by the barest light, while the humans fight blind.

"Idiot!" Farid snarls, shoving Vahid away. "Stay out of my way."

" _Your_ way?" Vahid shouts, offended. "How dare you talk to your Emir like this!"

"You are not my Emir," Farid says, teeth grit with anger.

"Emir Vahid," the Doctor says, and sees them both turn towards the sound of his voice. He laughs. "Somehow I don't see you laying down your life for him, Farid." He moves silently in a different direction, and their heads do not follow. 

Vahid looks towards Farid, and there's a flash of worry across his face, followed by more than a flash of contempt. "I order you to kill him," Vahid declares, pointing blindly into the darkness.

"Be quiet," Farid hisses, face red with anger, and perhaps shame. "Get in my way again and I will find another stupid rich idiot to be Emir."

Vahid's jaw drops. "When I am Emir, I will have your tongue cut out for such blasphemy!"

Farid brings his sword about with deadly purpose, and brings the tip almost to Vahid's mouth. Vahid pales, and steps back, mouth tightly shut. Farid presses a finger to his own lips, and steps forward into the darkness, listening for any sound that will betray the Doctor's position.

"The lamp!" Vahid suddenly calls, but not to Farid. "Open the lamp!"

The sound of thin metal clattering, and then from the far side of the room a lamp is suddenly lit, held by a fretful Shaykh. Their eyes meet, and then the Doctor must move quickly as Farid runs towards him, sword raised, eyes wide with fury. Suddenly it's a chase, Farid pursuing him as the Doctor ducks behind pillars, weaving a nimble retreat. He's so focused on not being cut to ribbons that he almost runs straight into Vahid. He throws himself aside and the others collide, the momentum sending Vahid hard against the pillar. Vahid's sword skitters off into a dark corner.

Farid shakes off the collision, and stalks towards the Doctor with deadly intent.

"My sword," Vahid slurs, stumbling after it. "Where is my sword? Give me light!"

The Shaykh hesitates, then follows after him. "Finish him, you fool," he hisses at Farid. "We have no time for this! The whole plan is in danger."

"I don't care," Farid replies, his whole being focused on the Doctor. There is little grace to his sword now, only a murderous honesty. 

A flash of orange in the corner of his eye, and a sudden vertigo grips the Doctor. It takes a moment for him to realise what's happening. "Mirza," he breathes, seeing through both their eyes at once. "Mirza, don't!" he cries, clumsily fending off Farid as he struggles to reorient himself. 

But it's too late. A cry of fear turns to a strangled gurgle as Mirza's jaw locks around Vahid's soft throat. The Doctor pushes Farid back, and then turns to Mirza, to command her to stop, even as he feels his own jaw tighten in echo of her deadly bite. 

He feels a shove, and tastes blood in his mouth. Vahid's? His own? Before he can turn, to bring his sword up in defence, he feels it again, and this time knows it for what it is: the swift, sharp slice of a blade across his back, so sharp it takes long seconds before he feels the pain. He cries out in shock and sudden, overwhemling agony, as his back lights up in two long streaks of pain. His hand clenches tight around his sword, tight against the pain. He is suddenly on his knees, but the sword is still in his hand.

The Shaykh groans in horror, eyes darting between the dying Vahid and the bloody sword in Farid's hand. "No, no. This should not have happened," the Shaykh moans.

The Doctor's mouth opens and closes in silent response. His robe slips from his back, falling forward to reveal the remnants of a long, neat X. His back is wet with blood, but there is something else. Something familiar, but strange. He swallows, and tastes artron in the air. 

_Regeneration._ No, no, no. Not now. Not _here_. 

"What trickery..." Farid says, taking a few steps back.

The Shaykh stares at them. "What is it? What's going on? That light..." 

"Master," the Doctor whispers, tears in his eyes. He braces himself, expecting the coldness to come over him next, the tripping of his hearts, the sensation of falling within himself, and then the overwhelming heat...

But his hearts beat steady. He breathes in and out. He's not dying. This is not regeneration. Then what...?

He closes his eyes. The cuts are not deep. They were meant to humiliate, not to kill. He's not dying. 

Mirza growls low. She crouches over Vahid's corpse, haunched against an unknown threat. The shadows retreat, and the Shaykh holds a hand up against a brightening light. 

The press of a sword tip against his neck. The Doctor goes very, very still 

"Do you think fire will scare me?" Farid sneers. "You insult the true warriors who went burning into battle, the flame of angels on their backs." The sword tip lifts, but stays mere inches from the Doctor's skin as Farid walks a slow circle around him.

"Tell me why," the Doctor says, quietly. "Why do this? The Emir--"

Farid spits on the ground. "The _true_ Emir is dead. Your pretender is _nothing_."

The Doctor looks into Farid's eyes, and sees the anguish there, the pain. It's a mirror of his own. "You loved him," the Doctor says, gently, simply.

"You know nothing of love," Farid replies.

The Doctor stares back. "I know enough. I know killing won't bring him back"

Farid presses the blade to the soft of his throat, and the Doctor thinks of Mirza's teeth. Farid leans close. "I swore I would die for him. I dreamt of that day, swore that my last moments on this earth would be in his arms. And your Emir took that from me. So I will take him from you."

Farid raises his sword, bringing it back for the final blow. The Doctor stares at the bloodied blade, suddenly fascinated by the small sparks of artron dancing along it. It shouldn't be possible for artron to persist like that, after the blood oxidises. There would have to be a tremendous amount of energy in every cell for it to...

"In the name of God and all his angels," the Shaykh murmurs, pale and staring. "Farid! Stop! Do not kill him!"

Farid turns his head in confusion, then turns back. The light is brighter now, so bright Farid can barely keep his eyes open. The whole room is lit as if by the midday sun. The Doctor's back burns, it burns, and he is dizzy from the light in his head.

The light...

"Enough!" Farid cries, and the sword swings down.

_The air is fire._

He hears nothing, feels nothing, sees only endless, searing white. And then slowly, slowly, the world returns, sense returns, the throbbing pain of his back returns. He breathes out, and golden light sparkles on his breath. He looks down at his hands, and they glow with a soft throb. 

Someone is speaking. He looks up, and the Shaykh is praying, tears on his cheeks.

Farid falls to his knees before him, eyes wide with pain and confusion. The skin on his hands is pink and peeling, as if sunburnt. He is trembling.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor says, though his tongue is clumsy and his lips numb He reaches out to comfort Farid. Artron poisoning. It's too late. Farid falls forward, and somehow the Doctor catches him, cradles him in his arms. 

Farid looks up to him, but does not see him. " _Ustad_ ," he cries, smiling with sudden joy. But then he cries in pain. His body convulses once, twice, and then he is still, and he is gone.

"I'm..." the Doctor begins, but his throat is tight with sorrow. He stumbles to his feet, away from the corpse. Death everywhere. _Ustad. Master._ At least Farid died within the memory of love. Vahid was less fortunate.

The Shaykh steps closer. "Oh Holy Messenger," he moans, prays. "Please spare me. I did not know. Holy Messenger, I am your humble servant, praise be to God! Spare me for my ignorance!"

"Don't move," the Doctor says, stepping back to keep the distance between them. Until he can staunch the artron, it will be deadly for any human to stand too close.

As he steps back, he sees another light, and turns to see an old mirror, half-covered by a drape cloth. It's dusty and dulled, but its reflection is clear enough. The Doctor sees himself half-naked, blood-streaked, and glowing, all aglow. And from his back, the radiance of wings, wide fans of pure artron pouring from the cuts in his back. It's no wonder that the Shaykh is bowed in worship, mumbling of Jibrail, Israfel, Azrael.

He didn't regenerate. But what has happened to him... Only the Master can tell him that. But until then, he can at least heal his own wounds. He remembers the tickling ache of his regrown hand, closes his eyes, and concentrates. Gradually, muscle reknits, nerves regrow, skin heals. The bright light fades to the dull glow of his skin. He can't seem to turn that off.

"Shaykh," he says, turning to the praying man. "Is there anyone else? Was it just the three of you and the physician?"

"Yes," the Shaykh nods, staring blindly. "I offer my life to you for my trespass against you!"

"That's... really not necessary." The Doctor steps closer, and realises that something is wrong. "Shaykh, can you see anything? How many fingers am I holding up?" He holds up two fingers and waves them in front of the Shaykh.

"I see only your radiance, oh Holy Messenger. Only your light!" 

The Doctor realises that the Shaykh must have been looking directly at him when the artron burst happened. It blinded him, burnt out his optic nerves. Humans are always so fragile. He sighs, and looks at the wreck of humanity around him. Perhaps the Shaykh's newfound faith will be for the best. 

Mirza stares at him from the far corner of the room, ears flattened with wariness; she is fine, if displeased. Hopefully she is willing to take a few more orders.

"Shaykh, you are forgiven."

The Shaykh smiles broadly, and laughs. "Oh, thank you, thank you--"

"--But you must never speak of this again, to anyone. Mirza will help you to your room. Stay there and... and pray."

"I will, oh Holy Messenger."

The Doctor sighs. Once they are gone, he takes Vahid's cloak and wraps himself in it. He makes his way into the palace, keeping a safe distance from the humans. The guards are suspicious of his behaviour, but let him into the Master's chambers. 

The palace is still looking for the Master's poisoner. He'll let the blame fall on Farid and Vahid, and not the physician's family or the blinded Shaykh. The living have suffered enough.

"Master, what have you done?" he asks, but the Master cannot hear him. Every part of the Doctor yearns to rush to the Master's bed, to lay beside him and hold him, to burst open with healing artron. But memories of the Gamestation stop him. He has no TARDIS to assist him, no idea of what he is capable of in this condition. No idea how much power could be unleashed. He must be careful.

If the Master regenerates with poison in his bloodstream, the results could be unpleasant. A shattered personality would destroy everything they've built. He's only just got the Master back, and to lose him like this...

No. Whatever happens, forced regeneration must be a last resort.

But now he knows there is a chance. Now he knows there is hope. He will save the Master, will bring him back, will find a way. 

" _Ustad_ ," he says, softly. "Master. _Effendim._ " 

He lets the cloak fall from his shoulders, and steps forward.


	14. Chapter 14

He walks.

The flat ground goes on forever in all directions. It is stubbled with rocks, with sparse patches of dry, sharp grass that have not seen rain in a year. The Master looks up to the sky and there are no clouds, only the bright sun and endless blue, merging into endless brown.

He walks.

The desert is everywhere: in the cracked calluses of his feet, in the dryness of his eyes, the taut redness of his skin. His tongue feels large and foreign, and there is grit between his teeth. The heat pervades him, invades even to the bones of him, making him ache and shiver.

He walks, because he knows that he must. He knows this path, and knows the end of it. Knows there will be glory and power and all that he could ever wish for. There is a vision within him of green forests and cool water and a soft, soft bed, sweet perfumes, a belly full of wine and food. _Food._

His stomach twists with ancient hunger, reminding him again of its long emptiness. He staggers, clutching at his belly, waiting for the spasms to ease. The longer he walks, the quicker they go, as if his body is learning to accept, to adapt. To survive.

He will do more than survive. He will conquer. He will _rule_. This is not mere destiny, but fact. It has already been written. He can feel the pages of the history books as he turns them, as he runs his fingers across the words of his victory. He mouths the words in silence, for his voice is a susurration, quiet as a falling leaf. The sun has stolen it, but he will claim it back, claim everything, until he claims the very sun itself.

They thought to destroy him. They stripped him of everything--of his riches, his titles--and cast him out to die. But now he returns to them, every burning step taking him closer to the mountains of his home, to the gleaming towers of his youth. He will return as their Lord, and they will bow to him, and he will know their worship.

The glory burns in his chest, as searing as the sun, and he stops, raises up his arms, turns his face to the empty, endless sky. _Come to me_ , he mouths, shouts inside his head. _Serve me, oh Messengers, oh Angels. Submit yourself to my will!_

He stares into the blinding sun, the light searing his eyes, summoning the last spare moisture of his body into tears. They streak down his cheeks and are gone, sizzled away by the parching air.

And then he sees it. A black spot against the sun. His breath catches, holds. The spot grows larger, closer. It takes form.

_Wings._

It is a bird, but it is no sparrow, no vulture come to steal the last flesh from his dying body. When the sound of it reaches him, it is an impossible sound, for no bird of this planet could ever grow so large. The heavy flapping grows louder, the great shape closer.

He spreads his arms wide and closes his eyes, specks of sunlight dancing under his eyelids. "Come," he rasps, smiling, laughing.

A gust of air stirs up the sand, ruffling his ragged clothes, his wild hair. Another gust, carrying with it the scent of ozone. He breathes in, tasting power on his dry tongue. She shall come to him, and bestow upon him the radiant glory of kings, the crown of golden light.

"Come, my Simurgh," he rasps, as the gusts become a strong wind, whipping around him, scouring him anew. He revels in the pain: let it wash him clean, scrub away the dirt, the sweat, tear away all that he once was. He shall be born anew, seared in fire and forged into holy steel.

The wingbeats are deafening now, and she is almost upon him. He opens his eyes as the sandstorm swirls around him, ready to welcome her, ready to be blessed. And all at once his hearts freeze in fear.

Not the Simurgh, not his blessing, not his crown of golden light. The great bird diving towards him is the great bitch Kronos, goddess of Time, her fearsome claws spread, her cruel beak opening to consume him, to rend and swallow him.

 _"No!"_ , he shouts, his voice at last cracking into life.

There is only one thing he can do. He turns and runs, _runs_ , ignoring every pain, every faltering heartsbeat. He will not be taken into oblivion, into Time's dark maw. He will _live_.

A terrible shriek fills the air, and he looks back over his shoulder. He sees the Time Vortex billowing open behind her. Kronos laughs, and it is the hungry laughter of the shrieking void, chilling him to the bone. The endless sky begins to pull away from the sun, and the stubbled earth pulls up to meet it, to dance together in a spiral towards nothingness.

"I will rend and I will tear the fool who would master me," she shrieks. _"I will rend and I will tear and I will rend and I will tear!"_

Rocks fly from the earth, banging his shins, and he knows he must go faster or he will be carried with them. Faster, _faster_ , though his chest shrieks with pain and his muscles burn and his lungs fill with sand and he has nothing, no defense, no weapons, no chance. He must go _faster_.

He snarls against the sandstorm, against the wind and the pain and the horror at his heels. He snarls and bares his teeth and growls and _runs_ , loping from his speed, growing longer with the power of each stride. He snarls with victory as he realises he is beginning to pull away, that he is winning this race, and it spurs him on, faster and faster. He falls forward but it's only so that his front arms can push him from the ground. His spine coils and uncoils like a steel spring, his legs reaching farther and farther until his paws barely seem to touch the ground. The roar of the Vortex recedes into the distance, along with Kronos's frustrated screams.

He grins, baring sharp fangs, and still he runs.

The sparse patches of grass grow thicker, taller, redder. Fatigue is at last overcoming adrenaline, but the sky is silent once more. He ducks into the dense grass and collapses into its shade, utterly, utterly exhausted, and safe. Safe.

He can breathe again, the sand and pain gone from his chest. He licks at a spotted paw and cleans the dirt from his face. He swats at flies with his tail and closes his eyes.

A gentle wind makes the long grass wave. He purrs to himself, satisfied for the moment. His stomach rumbles, and he thinks idly of rabbits hiding in the grass, ready to be plucked and consumed like ripe fruit. They should give themselves to him, offered up in worship, and smile as they curl inside his belly.

Perhaps this should be his ambition. To rule over the grasslands instead of the cities. To be Lord of all cheetahs, all animals, and accept their gratitude into himself. A humble Lord, to be sure, firm but kind, cruel only as needs must. With another to rule by his side...

Dissatisfaction stirs him. What good is ruling if he rules alone? He sits up on his haunches and surveys the grasslands, and as far as he can see there are no others like him, no cheetahs with whom to share his feasts. His stomach rumbles again, and he decides that, at least for now, ruling is very good for filling up his stomach.

He stands, and slinks through the grass in search of prey. Fat grasshoppers scurry from his path, and he snaps mouthfuls of them, enjoying the crunch of their shells as he bites down. It's not a rabbit, but it's enough to ease his hunger, and he begins to feel restored. Many mouthfuls later, he smells water, and hurries to its source, a trickling stream lined with shrubs and short trees. He laps frantically at the water, slurping noisily, until his thirst is slaked.

Contented, he rolls on his back, paws raised and limp, the desert behind him at last.

There is only a moment's warning, and then it is too late, and he is scrabbling desperately at the snare around his neck. He snarls and bites and flails with his claws, but cannot break free. He slumps to the ground, paws shifting back to hands and feet, legs lengthening, muzzle shortening. He is a man again, naked, trapped.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

He looks up, and a man rides into view, atop a tall white horse. He knows this man. His name is... Farid?

"Help me," the Master croaks, fingers scrabbling at the tight, thin rope. The more he struggles, the tighter it cuts, but he can't seem to help himself, can't stop the welling panic.

"Help you?" echoes Farid. "Why must I help you, when you have ruined a perfectly good trap?"

"I will give--" the Master stops for a gulping breath. "Money, power, anything. Anything, _please_."

"You have no riches, and certainly no power," sneers Farid. "You have only yourself. Pledge yourself to the Emir, and you shall be free."

"I will pledge!" the Master gasps, the rope almost unbearably tight.

"Swear it!"

"I swear!"

Farid jumps off his horse and with a swift cut of his knife, the snare is broken. The Master writhes on the ground, taking deep gulps of air.

But before he can push himself to his feet, Farid kneels on his back and binds his wrists, ties a thick rope around his neck. Farid stands, then pulls the Master to his feet by the collaring rope."You are now a pledged slave of the Emir," Farid declares, climbing back onto his horse. "And I am his representative. You will obey my orders or you will be punished. Now _walk_." Farid tugs at the whip curled at his side, and his glare reveals that he is not afraid to use it. Naked, humiliated, and furious, the Master walks on.

~

The caravan slowly makes its way through the desert. The Master straggles across the sandy ground, hands tied to a long rope along with the other slaves. _Slaves._ He grits his teeth against a dry, bitter laugh. Let them call him a slave. Let them think him a slave. He will make them pay, make them _see_. When the time is right, he will take revenge for this humiliation.

At least he is no longer naked. He was given a loincloth, shabby and tattered, when they joined the caravan. Of course, they did not trust him not to run, so they refused to unbind his hands. The caravan guards pinned him to the ground and Farid wrapped him in the cloth. The Master burns even now at the memory of the indignity, and of Farid's thin smirk and calloused hands. For a natural _master_ to be so subjugated by creatures who are less than the dust beneath his feet--how has he not done anything about this? He's sick to his stomach with anger but the sun seems to be vapourising all the energy from him, peeling away at his skin and his strength. He's survived worse. He's only just cheated Time Herself once again, and now he can barely stay upright, his guts cramping and his breath hitching in his throat, shivering with fever. 

He will survive this. He will survive and he will make them pay.

And yet he burns, his rage fuelled by shame at his own failures. He's never as powerful as he wants to be, never as deadly as he wants to be, never as cunning as he wants to be. And the only obstacle to that is, and always has been, the Doctor. It's the Doctor who started all this, by hurting him more than anyone had ever hurt him before. It's his fault. It's he who wounded him first and the Master has ailed ever since. And now the wounds have been ripped open all over again, despite everything they've shared here, despite everything they've built. He has been betrayed again. He wonders if he has memories from before his first experience of betrayal, from before his first experience of hate. 

For if power is his oldest mistress, the Doctor is his oldest hate. It's familar, hate, an old and familiar song, and it fills him and ripples through him like it has for so many centuries. It blazes through the paths it carved into his mind lifetimes ago, shaping him, creating him, making him into the man he is. It's a song he knows by heart. _Without you, I would not be here. Without you, I would still have my lives. You, always you, have snatched them away from me, taken my power away from me, taken my life from me And I shall not rest until I have had my revenge, until I have reclaimed my power and my life, until you rest dead at my feet._

And yet, the Master is terrified. Terrified because he can't imagine what he would do without the Doctor, hates himself for letting himself be so defined by the Doctor. He's wasted all his lives on him, and yet he does not know of anything else. The same hatred and bitterness and fear of powerlessness that made him into what he is has also bound him to the Doctor, inextricably. He fears his entire self would collapse in shreds if the Doctor vanished, like so many tightly bound vines from around a crumbling pillar. 

They pause for prayers, and a dervish takes out a well-thumbed holy book. He reads a folktale rendering of the story of Iblis, _he who is despair_ and how he was made of fire while Adam was made of clay. Of how Iblis had been given free will, and had chosen to not bow to Adam because he thought himself better than clay, and how God had cast him out. And how he will forever whisper evil into the hearts of humankind from before them and after them, from their left and their right, and will never give them respite.

The Master observes carefully as the people prostrate, and looks at the dervish, who is facing away from him. He has both of his hands on the book, and the knife on his waist hangs just within the Master's reach, there for the taking. 

_Now._

The Master grabs the knife, wraps his rope around the dervish's shoulders and holds the knife to his throat. His hearts race with excitement, every hair in his body standing up, his nerves shot through with the glory of adrenaline. He narrows hs eyes and purrs, with the voice of a man who has regained power. "Remain where you are. All of you."

The dervish sighs and presses back against him, then turns around in his arms. The Master is about to stab him for his insolence before he sees his face, and it is the face of the Doctor that now turns to face him. The Doctor just looks at him, gently, filled with sincerity and love. He glances at his book, reading a line, then looks into the Master's eyes once more. 

"But the mystics say there is more to this tale. They say Iblis had a sincere heart and they know why he could not bow to Adam. That there was a reason why he could not submit himself to anyone, and it was not pride."

The Master feels the old panic rising within himself, and the knife trembles in his hand. He tries to sneer, but his teeth are chattering, and black spots of dizziness dance in his eyes. He can't do this. He can't do this, and he hates himself for being pulled into the same old dance again. Yet, he plays his part. He has to ask, has to know the answer. "Really? And what was the reason?"

The Doctor closes his hand around the Master's, drops the book and puts his other hand over the Master's hearts. 

"Because he so loved God he could not bow before anyone or anything else."

The Master cries out in rage and shame even as he falls, falls deep into the blackness, through the shifting sands, deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. The last thing he feels is the impact of a cold marble floor, and then nothing.

***

He wakes up naked. He finds he's resting on soft white silks on a low bed, in a small but beautifully decorated room, the sort reserved for court favourites. _His_ court favourites. This is _his_ palace, the quarters he recognises as those of the Ghilman. It is the house of his male slaves, all cupbearers, warriors, dancers. _Pets._

Servants enter, the sunlight through the latticed windows dancing on the golden embroidery of their robes. Listless, the Master is lifted out of the bed as the servants start to beautify him. Kohl is traced around his eyes and his hair is combed out, his face shaven. "We're making you ready for your lord," the servants tell him, winking knowingly. He recognises their faces as the same ones that prepare him for the pleasures of his harem. He has always known and gleefully manipulated the authority exuded by immaculate dress and stately grooming. Whenever he's dressed himself in perfectly cut suits of silk and velvet, whenever he has lined his eyes to make them more striking or groomed his beard to make his features sharper, it has been about seduction, about power. He's turned himself into something to be adored and desired from afar, someone who could command others through not only his mind but also his body. And nowhere has he let himself indulge the way he has here in Persia, particularily when he's had the Doctor to tease. He'd never felt so beautiful in his life, clad in majestic silks and jewels, every part of his body decorated, the Doctor literally crawling at his feet and begging for his touch.

But now, they are making him the object of someone else's pleasure, and it terrifies him. Fine ointments of malva and musk are rubbed into his skin to make it soft and yielding. He's still so limp and so weak he can but watch as his limbs are lifted one by one, stray hairs are shaved and plucked, as he is rinsed and oiled inside out. His arse cleaned and opened for fucking, his mouth painted for sucking, bangles slipped around his wrists and ankles to make music as he's taken. With every treatment, dignity and agency are stripped away from him. With every new jewel his authority is taken from him. With every daub of paint he is turned from subject to object, from master to slave. 

When he is, at last, escorted to the throne room, he wonders what there is left of himself but fear and despair. 

There, on his high throne, sits the Doctor. He looms large, dominating the torchlit room, casting a long shadow over the carpeted floor. He is framed by a large golden relief depicting the sun, for he is the representative of Mithra upon the earth. The Lord of the covenant, the Lord of friendship, and yet the sun seems to be blazing with midwinter frost instead of life-bringing heat. Dozens of pale, white-uniformed guards surround the throne, all armed to the teeth, and white-robed councillors sit on cushions either side of the Doctor. This is not the scene of an amorous tryst, no. It's the Emir dispensing justice, and it's the Master who is on trial.

When the Doctor stands up to receive him, he looks like a giant. The room seems much bigger than he remembered, dizzyingly large, and it seems to swallow him up, swallow him inside the Doctor's shadow. He feels cold and small, and his teeth are chattering, his knees buckling. What is it that saps his energy thus? He's had this nightmare more times than he can remember, and has always torn himself out of it before, has always managed to escape it somehow.

The Doctor extends his hand. "It is the eve of Mehregan, when all must swear fealty to the Emir. Kneel, and show to us that you are loyal. Kneel, and show to us that you serve our land. Kneel, and show to us that you love us." 

"And what if I don't?"

The Doctor drops his hand, his face full of sorrow. "Then you shall be exiled from us."

The Master shivers, hugs his arms to himself and casts a contemptuous look over the court. Defiance is all he has left, even if everything else has been taken from him. It's his only weapon against the Doctor, and he will fight him until the bitter end. "Then let me be exiled. I will not be your slave."

The Doctor steps down from his dais and seems to shrink a little, loom a little less. He cups the Master's face with his hand. It's hot against the Master's chilly skin, too hot, and the Master jerks his head away. That way, he doesn't have to look at the Doctor's eyes full of tears. And yet the Doctor pleads, turns his face back towards him, now cups his cheeks with both hands. 

"I'm trying to help you. Please stay with me." With tender fingers, he wipes the cold sweat from the Master's face, his lips trembling with despair. "Please don't leave me. If you go now, you will die". He slides one hand down to the Master's chest, over his hearts. "If you die now, all of this will have been for nothing. All that we have seen, all that we have built, all of it will turn to dust." He blinks, and tears roll down his face. "Die now, and my soul will die with you."

Something golden pulses in the Master's hearts, trembles like a bird in the cage of his chest, then grows silent. "No. I will not submit." There are tears in his own eyes, chaos in his mind, but all he can say is "no". The eternal "no". It's what he's always answered, and he knows no other answer. He thinks of those times the Doctor wanted to save him, held out his hand and he chose death instead, because it hurt less. In fact, death feels like nothing at all, the complete opposite of pain, because nothing in the world hurts him as much as the Doctor does. And death is beckoning to him again with its coldness and its silence and its white, and the Doctor's voice seems to be coming from further and further away. 

"Stay with me. Master. Stay with me. Fight it. It's just a poison. You can fight it. Come on."

His knees give out from underneath him, and the Doctor holds him up in his arms, his tears falling hot over the Master's cheeks.

"You and I, together. Until the universe dissolves. Remember? Even if you leave in anger for a thousand years, you still always return to me. Because it's me you want. It's me you've always wanted. I'm here, Master. I'm here. Can you hear me?"

_But Iblis chose exile over mercy, and alone he shall wander, full of sorrow, until Judgement Day._

The torches explode into white, the guards' uniforms explode into white, the sand explodes into white, and the Master is no more.

***

He is dead. He lies high upon a mountain ledge, surrounded by dark clouds and whipped by bitter winter winds. His dead eyes stare at the sky, his body is frozen, his body is stone. His hearts have stopped, his lungs have stilled and he has been exiled from life. 

He should feel peace, but he doesn't. He should feel his life force, what little of it still lingers in his brain dissolving, cascading into complete silence. Without thought, without pain, without consciousness. Without the weeping face of the Doctor burning in his mind like an afterimage, begging for him to return. He's had enough of this game, and no longer wants to return to the old cycle of pain and humiliation. Death is the only victory left for him. This much he's learned. It's over. 

Yet something is holding him back, clasping him, tugging at him. Something is dragging his consciousness from his brain to his chest. There's a burning, drilling sensation cutting through his breastbone, just between his hearts, screwing him to the ground, as if trying to split him in two. 

The Doctor's voice echoes inside him, a gentle whisper. "I'm here, Master."

 _No. I am free of you. Let me go._ The pain in his chest intensifies, spills and seeps over his hearts like golden ink, and he would scream if he could.

"It's me you've always wanted. And now you have me." 

The Master convulses once, twice, his hearts stammering into life, his lungs wheezing. "No," he groans, writhing, lips dragging upon the rocks. "Let me die." 

He clutches at his breastbone, claws at it, sees the golden artron glowing from deep inside, turning his chest into a lantern. As the light intensifies, he sees its source, right between his newly-beating hearts. A sphere of golden light. And upon it, the miim.

He falls on his back _sobs_. 

It's inside him. _He_ is inside him. The excess artron the Master nurtured in the Doctor and then fed on, compressed into a tight ball inside him, and now it's leaking out. For half his lifetime, his greatest desire was to steal the Doctor's life force. To steal his body, to consume him completely, make him dissolve into himself, make the Doctor nourish his every cell And now, even when he has lain down to die, the Doctor is inside him and will not leave him. Because the Master invited him there, defied all the hallowed laws of the Time Lords when he cracked their biodata and allowed them to mingle. He struck his vines into the Doctor and the Doctor responded, surging back into him, flowing into him through the link, soaking the Master with himself. The Doctor rests in his marrow, his vines climb the spiral of his DNA, he sparks through his every nerve. 

The Master sobs again, with hysterical laughter, hot tears flowing, pulsing down his cold temples. Vines streak through his limbs, bones, make every muscle in his body twitch with life. A life he does not want, a life that's the Doctor's. He lies there, spasming, shouting at the sky.

"Don't I have a choice?"

A dagger materialises in his hand. 

_There's always a choice._

Trembling, supporting himself against the rockface, he lifts himself to his feet. It's started raining, a steady winter drizzle.

Before him, arching down from the cliff edge, there's a bridge. It's little wider than a man's foot, made of shining silver-coloured metal. Mist and rain obscure its other end and make it shiny, slippery, treacherous. Yet he knows where it's leading. The Doctor.

And at the thought of the Doctor, the clouds part for a brief second, and he sees his own palace at the foot of the mountains, miles away. It's so far away, yet it's there, nestled in the dark green hills and valleys, whiter than white, and it's beautiful. _Home_ , he thinks, surprising himself. Is that how he really feels? He hasn't had a home since childhood. He's spent decades and centuries in various places, but never in his adult life has he had a home. 

Yet, he has to make his choice. He glances at the dagger, then glances at the bridge, and can see his palace no more. He glances at the dagger again and sees his reflection in it, weary, half-dead, yet still bathed in the gold and pink light of the miim burning in his chest. He could carve it out. He could reverse the miim, could recite the commands to unlock his biodata and release the Doctor's. Not that he knows how to do it, since it hasn't been attempted before, just like no Time Lord has ever been foolish enough to attempt a merging either. He wouldn't even know where to start. Of course, he could just destroy both, taking the Doctor with him. End this once and for all, taking the palace, the minaret and everything else with him. To undo everything that keeps his life force contained and blast the land with the power of the artron explosion, burn down everything this side of the mountain. 

The clouds part again and he sees it: the white marble crumbling, women and children screaming in pain with their seared skin hanging off them like rags, minstrels choking on the poisonous fumes as everything starts to melt. The Doctor slouched on his throne, bleeding light from his every pore, weeping, begging him to stop even as his mouth is burning away like paper in the flames. Mirza vomiting blood at his feet and mewling, laying down to die. The Doctor reaches out to him and pleads again, with melted eyes that no longer see, collapsing to his knees. 

All this the Master sees, and none of it satisfies him. None of it brings him the joy he has always felt in destruction, in the cries of others' pain. Even the Doctor's face, contorted and twisted, does not give him delight. The Master merely stands there and watches as the Doctor's ghost reaches out yet again, whispering something the Master can't quite hear, and then slumps on the ground, charred, disintegrating into a pile of ash. 

The clouds descend upon the carnage, obscuring the end of the bridge once more.

The Master has decided. He drops the knife, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He clasps his chest with both hands and focuses on the miim. He concentrates his eyes on the light, the light pulsing between his hearts, riding on his blood, rushing through his every limb. He thinks of the Doctor, of how he lay above him, inside his body in flesh and spirit, remembers being filled by him, focuses on every detail. The exact shade of brown his eyes were when his pupils were enlarged. The feel of his lips over his, the way their teeth clicked. The angle of his cock in his arse, the way artron sparked upon their tongues as they kissed. He convulses as he remembers, relives the vines first striking in, staggers, nearly losing his footing on the cliff.

The Master has what he has always wanted. The Doctor's life. And nobody loves life more than the Doctor, nobody is willing to fight for it as much as he does. And nobody loves _him_ as much as the Doctor does. It hurts to admit this, hurts as much as the vines do when they stir into full consciousness inside him, whip through him, coil through him, squeeze him and hold him and rebuild him. His entire body vibrates, he stands on tiptoe, every hair on his body standing on end. He's glowing with it, lighting up the shadowy ledge with his--the Doctor's--his-- _their_ fire.

He reaches inside his chest, rolls a long frond of artron into his hand, and casts it out like a lasso, far far down, over the bridge, beyond the clouds. 

_Bring me home, Doctor._

He spreads his arms and takes the first step. The bridge is impossibly narrow, less than the span of his hand, and its slickness makes it difficult to get traction. Yet he has no choice. He breathes, takes another step, then another, sliding a little downwards on the steep curve of the bridge, catching himself just in time before he falls. The vine extending from his chest glows, but feels loose, as if it hasn't found its mark. Fear claws at his belly. Maybe the Doctor _has_ abandoned him? Maybe he has accepted the Master's defiance and let him die, because that's what the Master wanted, after all? He sends a pulse along the vine, but it's weak, and there's no answer, no return echo. The mist and the clouds are always ten feet ahead of him, obscuring the other end completely. Each step takes calculating, each step takes an eternity, and he dares not look back for fear of slipping. Yet he staggers more and more as he hears no reply from the other end, and he wonders if there is anything there waiting for him after all.

It only takes a blink of an eye, a stiffening of his muscles in fear to make him slip. He curls around the narrow strip of metal, hugging it with both arms, clutching it with his thighs, shaking. To hell with pride. He can't do this.

"Help!"

There's laughter from below. 

"When have you ever given help to anyone?" 

Chancellor Goth reaches for him with blistered fingers, flies buzzing around his wounds, a rictus grin on his scalded face. "Where were you when I most needed you?" 

The Master kicks at Goth's hand and crawls forward, descending the bridge as fast as he can, only for Goth to grab his ankle.

"It's time for you to join me, old friend. I've waited for this day long enough."

"No!"

Goth tilts his head, tufts of blond hair falling off his head like dead leaves. "Who's going to save you? Who would ever think _you_ were worth saving?"

The Master doesn't have an answer to that. He looks ahead, concentrates and sends another pulse along the vine, calling for the Doctor.

Still nothing. Nothing at the end of the bridge but mist and clouds. 

Goth lets go and drifts to squat in front of him, the smell of charred flesh filling the Master's nostrils. "You see, we've all been waiting for this. We would hate for you to miss the party." Goth waves his hand and the clouds dissipate: around them, Atlantis crumbles, the Traken Union collapses, one third of the known universe is swallowed up, all because of the Master's greed. "Billions of souls are hungry for your blood," Goth grins, a tooth falling into his lap.

The Master shakes in rage. "No!" he roars, pushes Goth off the bridge and gets to his feet. Goth laughs even as he falls and he and the bridge are swallowed by the clouds.

The bridge is still narrow, but wide enough for two feet now, even though the Master can't risk getting up on his feet. He still has to measure each and every one of his movements and his advance is excruciatingly slow. With every step, he keeps calling out to the Doctor. Something tugs at the end of the vine, and hope flares in his hearts, and pulses out again. "Help me."

But still, there's no answer. He has to hope. Hope is not something he's ever trusted. It's the resort of fools, but so be it. He has been a fool, and it's high time for him to admit it. He has less qualms about hope than he has about love. The vine glows bright, but for all he knows, he has cast it out into emptiness and the Doctor won't be there, waiting for him. What's love worth if it's only one of you feeling it?

"Funny you should ask that," Lucy says, perched on the bridge, dangling her bare feet off it, like a child of ten. A child of ten in a red evening dress and bruises on her eyes and lips, red marks around her wrists and sperm running down her legs. She giggles. "Really funny." She bites her finger. "Do you want me to tell you about unrequited love, Harry?" 

The Master presses his face to the metal and wills her to go away. Not now. God, not now. 

Lucy pets his hair and sing-songs. "I think I know your sec-ret." 

The Master looks up, astonished. Lucy purses her lips and tilts his chin up, red fingernails dipping into the underside of his jaw. "I think it's because he hurt you." She nods to herself, eyes wide and looking inwards. "And now little Harry just wants eve-ry-one to hurt as much as he does." 

The Master looks away again. "It's different now. He loves me." He's not quite sure if he believes it, but he has to force himself to at least try. Maybe that will make her disappear.

Lucy titters, as if he's just told her the best joke in the world. "I hope for your sake, he does."

She glides down the bridge like it's a playground slide and disappears into the mists.

"Is that enough?" the Master shouts at the skies. "I get the point." He's bone-tired, and crawls and crawls further down the bridge. It's a little wider again, enough for him to make his way down on all fours. He does not know how many hours he's travelled, or whether he has travelled days. The only time the bridge seems to widen and become less slippery is whenever he concentrates on the Doctor. After his hands and knees are red from crawling, he gives up and just sits. He closes his eyes and sends pulse after pulse after pulse along the vine, as loud as he can, exhausting the last of his energy calling out to the Doctor. 

As he does so, he begins to build an image of the Doctor in front of himself, to visualise him, to bring him closer. To make him real. He starts with the feet, clothed in curled slippers. Then his legs, remembers the way they feel entwined with his--touch is the best way of remembering him--feels the bones of his hips, the curve of his arse, his long, long back. The thin V of his torso, the width of his shoulders, the sinewy strength of his arms from toil at the minaret. And finally, his face. His face is the most difficult thing. The Master knows its shape by heart, the jut of the jaw, the strong nose and the large, heavy-lidded eyes, but as he draws them from memory, they have no life to them. The Doctor just stares, as frightening as he always appears when he is just about to strike the Master down. It's the image that's most familiar to the Master, and it's that which he has to change. The Master takes the frond from his chest and _throws_ it into the Doctor's chest, penetrating him, watching the Doctor shudder into life. His eyes widen and blink, his mouth drops open, and he gazes the Master with worry and concern.

The Master pants from exertion. "Help me." He sends one last pulse of energy.

The pulse explodes everything into white, throwing the Master on his back, and when he opens his eyes again, the Doctor has wings. _Wings._ Four wings of artron, of light, the Doctor looming over him larger than he ever has before, extending his hand. Smiling.

"Come home."

The green valley spreads out behind him, the marble walls of the palace shining in the midday sun.

"Come home, Master."

The Master takes his hand and is enfolded within the wings of light.


	15. Chapter 15

He wakes up in his own bed, the fever gone, a foul taste in his mouth. Sunlight streams in through the open windows and birds are singing in the garden, as if winter had retreated for a few more days in favour of summer. He can smell bonfires and cooking, the distinct scent of sacred herbs and roasting lamb, so he can't have missed the Mehregan celebrations yet. The Doctor must've--

The Doctor. Where is he? He sits up, but falls back on the pillows immediately, dizzy, with an excruciating headache. He winces as he has to ring a bell for servants. Two girls enter and approach him with trepidation, two guards peeking in through the doors, eyeing him curiously. The palace must be crawling with gossip by now. He wonders how many bets were laid for his certain death, and in whose favour the odds were when it came to determining his succcessor. 

"Bring iced water and a walking stick," he barks. "Go." 

He slumps back on the bed, still not sure whether it was a good idea to re-embrace life, if it meant having to suffer a hangover like this. It's then when he realises there's something digging into the back of his head. It's a thick, leather-bound book, well-worn, decorated with blue and golden vines. Rumi. Of course. It's been left lying open on the bed, bookmarked with a peacock feather.

"Even if you leave in anger  
and stay away for a thousand years

You will return to me,  
for I am your goal."

The Master snaps the book shut, presses his face to the pillows and groans. 

***

The servants tell him they haven't seen his slave in the palace for the last day or so. He'd left Mirza and a few select ghilman to guard the Master's chambers and was, they presumed, in the minaret, preparing it for the festivities.

Of course.

The Doctor has found her.

His hearts thrum in his chest as he makes his way to the minaret, panting, cursing as he has to lean heavily on his cane. He's been such an idiot, and admitting that to himself is more painful than the sting in his muscles, the leaden weight in his stomach from the remains of the poison. Of course the Doctor will have found the TARDIS. How did he ever expect him not to? He always does, and always runs away, just like he did the first time.

And it's then that he senses her. He can feel her power thrumming along the secret veins of circuitry arabesqued inside the stones, interspersed with little pulses of recognition, of alarm as he approaches. The TARDIS door is closed, yet hope and fear make his heartsbeat trip and judder. He stops, suddenly afraid to reach out, to find out. Every possibility rushes through him at once, and he clenches his hands against their trembling. 

What he set in motion, he was not able to control. He could not control anything. He did not take his own vulnerability into account, the way he never does, and it's all gone to hell because of his own stupidity, his eternal stupidity. He's going to lose everything he's built here, he's going to lose his kingdom, and yet kingdoms mean _nothing_ when he tries to imagine an universe without the Doctor in it. It might as well not exist; one might as well imagine the entire universe a void. 

He leans heavily on his cane, telling himself that it can't be the worst or he would _know_ , he would know, even if they had all the stars between them. 

The door is pulled open, and golden light spills out, shaming the arabesques into dimness. The Doctor steps out, his eyes unreadable.

"You're glowing," the Master says, dumbly.

The Doctor lets out a little, broken laugh and he gazes downwards, at his hands, soft golden curls of artron emanating from his fingertips. "It would seem that I am." He shakes his head, and pain flashes across his face. He closes his eyes tight against some invisible effort, then opens them, looks directly into the Master's eyes, needing honesty. "How long do I have left?" 

The Master flinches at the starkness of the question. Guilt flushes through him, mixing badly with his quiet, continuous panic. He wants to retch, but refuses. The Doctor's quiet, knowing stare makes the Master look away, suddenly and acutely ashamed at his presumption, his arrogance. In avoiding the Doctor's eyes, he stares at the bands of his robes, the fine embroidery that declares him "Keeper of the world, protector of its people, the sun of righteousness forever and ever." Always a phrase more suited to describe the Doctor than himself. 

Perhaps that is why he has not left. Out of the two of them, the Doctor's always had more reasons to stay. Even after everything the Master has done to him, has created in him, for the Master's one-sided majesty.

The Doctor steps away from the TARDIS, closing the door behind him. It hurts a little to look at him, from the artron pouring from him like sunlight, from the sadness in his downturned mouth. The Master straightens tall, forces himself to look upon his creation. He can see the strain in the Doctor now, the terrible effort he must be taking to keep the roiling power of so much energy contained. He has become a walking bomb, more powerful than any weapon the humans could imagine. 

The Doctor wavers, and the arabesques flare with energy, lighting up the chamber as if by the midday sun. The Doctor gasps with relief, and the light grows brighter, brighter, hotter. The Master must shut his eyes against it or be blinded, cringes against the dry, furnace heat that bakes the chamber like an oven. 

And then, just as suddenly, the room is dim again, the air cooling, the arabesques calmed to a gentle, pulsing glow. The Master opens his eyes, blinking away the perfect afterimage of the Doctor. 

The Master can't apologise for this. It's too big for an apology. It's too late. He pushes away the panic, pushes away the shame. He will not let this fail, not let it destroy them and everything they've built together. 

"Eternity," answers the Master, with all the certainty he can muster. "For both of us, if you..." He falters at this, not knowing, not at all certain of the Doctor's feelings, if this betrayal was at last too great. 

The Doctor sighs, and it's such a familiar sound. Hope swells within the Master, fighting back his fear.

"When were you going to tell me, then?" The Doctor asks, long-suffering but tolerant. "Or was that not a part of your _plan_?" The last word comes out with great skepticism.

The Master gives an affronted sound, as if to say _my plans are always perfect, if you didn't insist on meddling with them_. But his hearts aren't in it. There's too much distance between them, even though they are merely a few strides apart. 

"Who poisoned me?" the Master asks, quietly. He remembers collapsing in the garden, the Doctor nowhere in sight. It's immaterial, now, he knows that, but he has to fill the silence with something, to banish the quiet with words.

The Doctor draws a deep breath, his voice neutral, matter-of-fact. "Vahid, at first. Then he got the Shaykh mixed up in it." It's as if he's discussing the weather, not murder. "Then Farid, to deliver the poison." He pauses, as if weighing the right words. "But it's all over now."

With a chill, the Master realises what must have happened, but he still has to ask. "Dead?"

The Doctor nods. "All except the Shaykh."

Once, it would have delighted the Master to have the Doctor kill for him. He would have relished his corruption, taunted him with it. But this truth is not rich, not sweet, only bitter.

He'd thought to turn the Doctor into his plaything, the instrument of his own glory, and sees how his own tending and the Doctor's own nature have made him greater than either of them could have imagined. Yet it's not the towering Doctor of his nightmares that he sees before him, nor the broken, angry, harassed creature he'd captured. No, In front of him stands a man glowing with more artron than any Time Lord should be able to contain, perhaps because he himself doesn't know what he's dealing with, yet he contains it because he must. Just like he's always taken whatever the Master's thrown at him, whatever the universe has thrown at him, taken it and dealt with it. Because that's what he is, that's who he is, and he can't do, can't be anything else. Around his neck, the Master can see the faint tan line of where the collar once encircled his throat, where the Master had once thought he'd owned him.

And now, he no longer does, yet the Doctor has stayed. He is still there, patient even in his pain, patient even though he is burning, hurting, not having a single reason to trust the Master. The Doctor has always been resourceful--perhaps, he even thinks he could survive this himself, study the TARDIS databanks, find a way of healing himself, no matter how unlikely it would be. He is stronger, now. He could turn on his heels and take the Master's artron with him, take his very biodata with him, maybe even find a way of extricating the Master's presence and casting him out once more. 

But the Doctor is here. He has not left him. And the gratitude the Master feels humbles him.

If they are to survive, if they are to try and make something of this, it has to be together. There is no other option. And he lifts his gaze, not caring if his voice trembles, not caring if his cane creaks against the stone floor, not caring if the Doctor can see there are tears in his eyes.

"Thank you," he says, meaning _I'm sorry_.

The Doctor softens, then. Two simple words, and the honesty behind them, and the Doctor's solemn face cracks into a crooked smile. The strain in his eyes eases, though the arabesques do not flare at all. He steps forward, and the Master shudders at the heat of him, feels the artron seeping into his bones, drawing away the last of the poison, speeding his healing. He lets go of the cane, and finds he can stand.

"So much power," the Master gasps, and the Doctor reaches out to steady him The grip of his hand on the Master's arm makes the Master's toes curl, makes him dizzy. For countless nights, he had taken from the Doctor, taken his fill, but now the Doctor _gives_.

" _Oh,_ " he breathes, in revelation. 

The Doctor smiles at him, sad and happy and afraid and full of endless, endless hope. The Master has always been in awe of how much hope pours forth from the Doctor, even in the darkest times. It pours into the Master now, a torrent carrying away fear, carrying away old, old pains. Lifetimes of calcified longing and anger and revenge, dissolving in the flood. Tears roll down his cheeks, and he lets them fall. 

"Eternity for both of us," the Doctor says, softly. Accepting the offer that the Master should have given at the beginning of all this. "But no more lies."

The Master gives a sharp laugh. He can feel the Doctor's mind, so powerful, so pervasive. "No more," he promises, as if he could lie to this being the Doctor is becoming, this god that he will be. He feels a sudden urge to kneel, to bow, and pledge his life, but the Doctor's hand on his arm stops him. 

"Together," the Doctor says, and it's more certain than anything the Master has ever known. "We do this together."

"Together," the Master agrees. He reaches up, and slips his hand between the Doctor's robes, over his hearts, to where the vines are pulsing with white heat. The circuit between them completes, and the Master feels light, so light. 

He sees now, what he has done. Understands, for the first time, the truth of the ancient ritual that he read of in the depths of the Academy's library He had thought to create a slave of a god, something he could use at his will, and walk away from as he wished. But in truth, he has changed them both irrevocably. There is no going back. They will be bonded forever, beyond regeneration, beyond death. 

There is now nothing of the Master that is not also the Doctor, and vice versa. They both know it, feel it singing in their every cell. Yet he kisses the Doctor, kisses him greedily, as if wanting to suck his very soul back just so he can feed it back to him again and again, until the universe ends. And it terrifies him, this realisation, terrifies him because it's an emotion that's always belonged to the Doctor, and yet it is now his also. And he reels in it, reels in the Doctor's arms as the Doctor kisses him back with a hunger he recognises as his own, the need to take, the need to consume. Breathless, he pulls back from the kiss, and sees pain still burning in the Doctor's eyes. But there's also trust, trust that takes his breath away.

With a soft sigh, their lips part, the artron flickering around them softly like rustling leaves. The Doctor steps back, steps towards the TARDIS, but his hand grips the Master's, and pulls him along.

"Come on," he says, lightly. "You have to tell me everything."

The Master feels his cheeks flush, but squeezes the Doctor's hand back. "I will," he promises. And there is no regret.

Tomorrow, Eternity awaits them. And they step forward, hand in hand.


	16. Chapter 16

It's the hour before dawn, and the path to the minaret is flanked by torchbearers, a serpentine ribbon of light. The minaret itself, finally finished, shines white in the night, lit by thousands of lanterns, for the hour of Mehregan has arrived. 

The Doctor emerges through the palace gate upon a golden horse, decked out in robes and veils of white silk in the manner of a bride. And like a bride, his eyes have been painted with kohl, his lips flushed with the juice of pomegranates, and like a bride he is filled with nervous energy. The lines of a poem flash through his mind, a refrain:

_Amidst the light of candles and torches –  
Tonight this fecund world  
will give birth to eternity._

For it is from his body eternity will spring, and it terrifies him, even if he knows of the Master's plans. It's the hour upon which everything hangs in balance and he is at his most fragile, a cracking vessel barely containing all the energy within, not knowing if he himself will survive. Tonight, time and space themselves feel fragile, rippling around him like water, like his silken robes as he rides towards the minaret. The veils are not mere decoration: the thickness of the silk is of the variety ghilman warriors use against their skin when going into battle, to protect it before they set their armour on fire and charge towards the enemy. Yet his fire is no set of powder charges, but something greater. The artron coils and hums inside him, aching to be let out, a craquelure of fire under his skin, the glow still faintly perceptible even through the silk. The whiteness of the fabric and the blazing of the torches barely mask it, mask the glow he can see even upon his breath as he inhales, exhales, steadies himself and rides on.

On either side of the path, people are gathered around in solemn ceremony, from all walks of life, all here to witness the hour upon which Mithra, the Lord of Ages, renews his covenant with the people. The torchlight reveals a multitude of humans of different ranks, different dispositions: old peasant women wrapped in their brightly-coloured shawls, saluting him piously, haughty black-robed officials of the Caliph bored and yawning, mumbling amongst themselves of how they'd rather be in their beds in Baghdad. Whether filled with awe or skepticism, all eyes are upon him, and most importantly, the Master.

And it's towards the Master and his shrine he rides. Maids dressed in finery guide his horse up the spiral ramp of the minaret, singing a soft song of welcome, an ancient hymn celebrating the triumph of light over darkness. He remembers the time he was born into this body, the time he was still weak and resting, still shifting, not fully formed yet, and how similar human songs drifted into his ears through his trance, welcoming light into the world. For a slight, panicked moment, he wonders if this is the end, the songs of light heralding his exit from this world the way they heralded his entrance. From the distance, he can hear the last cries of sheep and goats being sacrificed to avert the evil eye, to sanctify the shrine's entrance. _There's no rebirth without pain, no life without blood._ Guards help him off his horse and he steps inside, steps through the door into the candlelit chamber, through the vines and prayers he painted with his own hands. 

Before the altar, underneath the giant fresco of the Simurgh, the Master spreads out his hands along its giant wings, spreads out his hands in greeting. 

"Behold, for the Simurgh has arrived to crown the rightful king with her glory."

The Doctor lifts the veil from his face and clasps his hands together in greeting, reciting the words he now knows by heart. On each line, he steps closer, on each line, the Master greets him with its answer.

" _Jahandar al-Mehrzad Ibn Soheil. O stars' descendant, O Mithra reborn. Behold him that holds the world,_ " he speaks.

The Master beckons him closer. "Be like the moth, which circles the lamp and offers its body." 

" _Raise your eyes to him, for he is the sun, the source of all power._ "

"Be like the deer, which, on hearing the horn, offers its head to the hunter."

" _Sacrifice yourself to him, for through death he brings life._ "

"Be like the partridge, which swallows burning coals in love of the moon."

" _Open your heart to him, for he is the illumination of the soul._ "

"Be like the fish, which yields up its life when separated from the sea."

" _Cast yourself unto him, for he is eternal as the endless ocean._ "

"Be like the bee, entrapped in the closing petals of the lotus."

" _Surrender your will to him, for he is the refuge of all who worship him_ "

And it's in his arms the Master enfolds the Doctor, the king his Simurgh, and greets him with a kiss, before he turns to address the crowd. 

"On this night of Mehregan, I bid you welcome." The Master scans his audience, the two dozen highest-ranking guests, who fought tooth and claw for the privilege of being present at the sanctum sanctorum. The council are all present, apart from Vahid, whose house is represented by his wife. Viziers and ambassadors from emirates all over Persia are present; scientists, religious authorities, politicians. Even a few poets with babbling tongues, for it is vital that word of this spreads; vital that all know from this day on who it is that wields the greatest power in this realm, who they should all bow down to, offering their love and worship. Imperious, the Master steps forward.

"You all know the legend of Mithra, Lord of Ages." He watches as all but the Zoroastrians and pagans frown, look uneasily around themselves so as not to be accused of blasphemy by attending this very rite. But they too know the story, know of the power of it. The Master lets all squirm but a moment longer, then continues, reciting the ancient salutation in a clear, melodious voice, the voice of a high priest.

"He is the Sun, ever waking, ever watchful; he is also the moon and the stars, with a hundred eyes and ears. He sees all, hears all, and there are none who can deceive him." 

The Master spies Khurshid from the corner of his eye, his face glowing with ecstasy, his pupils wide from sipping the sacred Haoma drink. He acknowledges Khurshid with a nod, smiling to the rest of the room, suggesting with his gaze they should follow Khurshid's example. "For it is Mithra who giveth you ecstasy, giveth you life and joy and everything that is to be enjoyed in this world and beyond. It is Mithra who is the lord of wide pastures, it is he who giveth abundance, cattle, progeny and life. It is he who destroys the wicked and rewards the good, and watches over the world." 

There are protesting grumbles in the audience, but the Master is steadfast: he has sown curiosity and doubt into his audience, and even those who would dismiss Mithra as a myth of the past are riveted, if only to see what the Master is getting at. 

Oh, he shall not keep them waiting for long. He is ready, the Doctor is ready, time and space themselves are ready for his, for their crowning glory. "And tonight, in this shrine, before your eyes, Mithra shall return from his long exile. Pay heed, for tonight is the night of miracles, miracles which you will later relate to your children, your grandchildren."

"This is gone on long enough!" a man bursts out, but he is stopped by none other than the Shaykh, blindly fumbling and then resting his hand on the man's chest, shushing him. "He speaks in a heathen tongue, but it is God's hand that is behind this. Be quiet and listen."

The Master nods. "The blind man is right. I have kept you in the dark long enough, and time has come to show you the truth. For I can reveal to you now that I _am_ the Lord of Ages, the Lord of Time, come to offer you my protection. And my companion," he turns towards the Doctor, "this man you see here, whom you thought but a lowly slave, is the Simurgh herself, and carries within him my divine radiance. And now the time has come to set that radiance free. Stand back and observe, and remember."

The Doctor shares a nervous glance with the Master, and sees the Master isn't yet in full health himself; the audience may be in awe of him, but from this distance, the Doctor can see the beads of cold sweat on the Master's forehead. He can feel the secret circuitry of the vines pulsing upon the walls, the steady hum of the TARDIS vibrating underneath his feet, feel and see far more than the humans can now, more than even an ordinary Time Lord can. He has to grit his teeth to be able to stay still, for he is in the centre of the storm, now, standing in the magic circle wrought with block transfer computations, with artron: time and space were vibrating around him before, but now they are starting to come loose, separating into ribbons around him, and he can see different timelines converging and expanding, and time would change forever if he were but to move and flick his wrist. 

It's happening. This point is becoming fixed with every word of the Master's, the echo of what is about to happen is already rippling back into his consciousness from the future, and there is no turning back now. This will happen, this is happening, this is going to happen, this will have happened, this. It's irrevocable, it's terrifying, and yet he's singing with it, every muscle trembling, his eyes closing as he steps in front of the altar and opens his shirt.

The Master touches his chest over his hearts and looks into his eyes. He can feel the Master's mind, _their_ mind speaking to him, within himself, shivers again as he feels how scared the Doctor, the Master is, how afraid of losing the Doctor, the Master, how afraid he is of it all ending here and now. They will never be the same after this, and yet there is a new future but seconds away, whether it's annihilation or rebirth, and there's a bittersweet twist in his hearts, in the Master's eyes brimming with tears. The humming of Time becomes louder and louder as the Master unsheaths a sharp knife in the shape of a peacock feather and presses a last kiss upon the Doctor's lips.

_Don't forget me._

The Master presses the tip of the knife upon the Doctor's chest, the Master's outline shimmering as he makes contact, as the Doctor's words radiate through him.

And the Doctor presses into the knife, joyous, and it is a _yes_ , he sings, an ecstatic _yes_ , his hearts light as he lets go.

There's a gasp from the audience as the Master cuts a _miim_ into the middle of the Doctor's chest, between his hearts, as it starts to glow white and gold with artron. His very chest is filled with light, like a lantern, glowing, pulsing, until the light snaps and flicks out of the _miim_ , hundreds of vines of light curling out from his chest, curling, entwining around his limbs as he cries out with its power, in its searing pain. He is being torn open, bleeding out light, the vines ripping and brushing over him, starting to tear him into pieces, starting to reorder his DNA. But it is nothing at all like regeneration, no, this is hundreds of times more powerful and Time itself gets pulled into the maelstrom, memories of futures and pasts lashing into him and out of him. He falls, falls, turning into pure light, turning, spinning, becoming the Vortex, becoming a whirlwind of fire, losing sight, losing hearing, losing all that he has ever been as he rises and falls and fills the shrine with light. 

And as the Vortex he roars, lashes out, the circuitry striking sparks, the glass honeycombs of the ceiling reflecting himself back, locking him inside the shrine, and he does no longer exist: he is matter, he is energy. The knot of all he has ever done, the twisted, tangled knot of Time his very existence has been starts to come loose, the strands of it whipping out, unfurling, some curling back on themselves. Without a face, without a body, as light he cries, he weeps, keens out a terrible sound: he sees empires fall, sees new ones rise, sees as he, the one who locked and unlocked so many things dissolves and how Time rushes out as he is no longer there to dam it, reordering itself into new rivers, shapes, paths. Without ears, without memory, he hears Jo crying out in terror, about all those millions of people who will die, who will never be born, hears the Master laugh, and yet it is not the same, since the Master is now holding him. The Master's arms are the last thing he knows before he _dissolves._

The Master shakes, watches as the Doctor's feet lift off the ground, watches as he flares out into light, into a tornado of fire, the people in the shrine screaming in terror, falling upon each other, cowering. And yet he watches, watches, hearts lurching as the Doctor is ripped out of time, out of space, as he becomes fire and air and nothing. And it is the most terrifying thing he's ever seen; the Doctor being wiped from existence by the force of his own energy, his body turned entirely into a spiral of light. It is what Omega tried, it is what Rassilon played with, and neither of them came back sane. He knew this would happen, and yet knowing it isn't the same as experiencing it: he screams in fury and loss, tearing at his own chest, stretching his arms, stretching his entire body around the pillar of light that is the Doctor. 

His face is burning, singeing, the silk on his robes smoking, and yet he holds, holds. For he has to complete the circuit, has to be the one to contain the Doctor, to draw him back in, because it is he who holds the last spark of the Doctor inside him. The Doctor is no more, no personality, no mind; he has turned into pure energy and it terrifies him. So he splits his own chest open, lets his own vines strike out, entwining himself around the Doctor, compressing, compressing him. He makes himself into a shell to contain the Doctor, becomes his opposite as he has always been, the only one who has ever been able to control him. He screams, again, in pain, the multicoloured strands of his own artron knitting, entwining, encasing the Doctor, pulling him back, down, down, compressing him down into a humanoid shape again. Slowly, slowly, the Doctor solidifies in his arms, roaring, humming, flames licking out from him from wall to wall, larger than he's ever been, as awesome as the Simurgh. 

And stronger than Omega, stronger than Rassilon, the Master holds. He holds and he holds, crushing the Doctor with all that he is, all his love, all that they've ever been and ever will be, summoning him back into existence from himself. He feels his ribs cracking under the pressure of the energy, feels as he himself pulses with light, as the Doctor's ghostly face starts to reform in front of him and smiles upon him. And it's then the last of the energy snaps, snaps, licks back into the Doctor's body, shooting through the Master, making the earth quake. The Master sobs, sobs, the Doctor's energy cascading through him, knitting his ribs back together, a rain of plaster around them as the Doctor solidifies in his arms.

In awe, with tears streaming down his face, the Master shakes as he holds him, as the Doctor places his hand on his chest over the pearl, vibrating energy into him, the Doctor's own eyes glowing with artron light. The ache of straining leaves the Master's limbs, although he dares not let go yet; he feels the last of the poison roll out of his body in rivulets of sweat, dissolve, he stands up straighter, taller, as the Doctor's feet finally touch the ground and he's returned.

The Doctor presses his forehead against the Master's and embraces him, embraces him for long moments, holding him against his chest, tears wetting the Master's hair. He is glowing still, exhaling artron, a soft glow enveloping them both. 

"Mithra," Khurshid whispers, and falls to his knees, his forehead touching the floor. 

The Doctor pulls back and looks around him with new eyes, his body seeming somehow lighter, a little taller, and although time has snapped back on its tracks again, he feels its vibrations in a way he did not feel before. The changes are subtle; he can feel the tiniest rearrangement of atoms as he brushes his hands across the Master's sleeves, connects with the Master's mind faster than he did before. The miim on his chest is gone, having sealed, and he no longer feels the one on his shoulder either, the tightness of the skin and the pain having gone. Nervously, he whispers: "How do I look?" as if there was something on his face, and the Master bursts out into laughter, trying quickly to hide it in the Doctor's shoulder. "Stop it." 

"Right, yes," the Doctor whispers and takes a step back, smiling and smiling. There's a ripple of light as their bodies come apart, as the Doctor leaves the circle of the Master's arms, taking his hand and lifting it as he turns to face their audience.

"You have seen what you have seen; is there anyone in the room who still has doubt?"

The people mutter nervously and shake their heads, still dusting plaster off their robes. Some are still in too much shock to move, some are weeping openly, holding each other, smiling in awe. 

The Doctor takes both of the Master's hands, smiles and shimmers, shimmers, haloing the Master with his radiance. He breathes with new lungs, new hearts aching with love for him, as they have done from one lifetime to another, forever and ever. With new eyes, he weeps with the joy of being alive, weeps for the new empires that will rise, the new millions who will now be born. Quietly, he weeps for the joy of beholding the Master, the one who has endured through Time, the one who has again come back for him, has pulled him back to himself like he always has done. His Effendim, his Beloved, his beginning and his end. With new lips, with a new tongue he speaks the words of the Simurgh, inscribed over the heads of ancient kings, speaks the words of his hearts, speaks the words of light. 

"Know that thou art king, crowned with the glory of kings, and are to rule over kings, forever and ever. Thou art the Lord of Ages, Jahandar Al-Mehrzad ibn Soheil; Thou art my ruler, my Lord and Master of all."


	17. Epilogue

The Master spits cheetah hair out of his mouth. "Get off," he tells the cub half-heartedly as he turns on his side and attempts to continue his nap. Only to find his face buried in the back of another cub, purring loudly beside him, and he grumbles and turns around again. His feet touch rough fur and sharp little fangs close around his toes, and that's when he's had enough. He sits up, wiping his face with both hands, bleary-eyed. He looks around the tent, but can't see Mirza anywhere. "Where's your mother?" he asks all three cubs. "Where have you left your mother? Hmm?" he asks, scritching the closest cub behind her ear. The cub lifts its head and chirps at him, licking his palm, turning onto its back and demanding more scritches. 

"I don't think you know, do you?" the Master mumbles as despite himself, he obeys and turns to pet the cub's stomach. 

And that's when he feels it. First, he mistakes it for a breeze blowing through the tent flap, hot on his skin in the dry midday heat. Then, the breeze solidifies into a voice-- _Hello;_ the Doctor's presence greeting him softly in his mind. 

The Master closes his eyes and smiles, shivers as he feels the Doctor ripple closer, closer towards the tent. _Hello,_ he murmurs back, drawing him in. 

But it is Mirza who slinks in first, greeting her cubs with soft purring trills, butting heads with them and grooming them vigorously before the Doctor himself enters. He slips through the doorway, haloed by the sun, haloed by soft ripples humans would mistake for heat. But the Master knows better. Oh, he knows better, for he knows this man for a god. 

_You're beautiful,_ the Master thinks. Beautiful as the Doctor straightens himself out in his robes of sapphire silk, beautiful as he undoes his turban and smiles a little at the Master. The Master smiles back, running his eyes up and down his body, drinking him in, still not quite believing the change before his eyes: the once sorry and melancholy creature, tortured with loneliness and despair now gone and replaced by someone full of strength and beauty, the Doctor come to his true power at last. The air quivers as he approaches the bed, time undulating softly with his movements, time brushing in an exquisite caress against the Master's skin as the Doctor takes his hand.

"Hello," he speaks, with his own voice, yet it is softer and more melodic than before, and in delight, the Master pulls him down onto the bed beside him. 

"Where have you been?"

"I took Mirza for a run." He laughs a little, glances down at himself, and the curl of his laughter sends the experience, vivid, into the Master's mind: the Doctor running across the steppe with Mirza, muscles burning with the joy of running itself, the exhilaration of speed, the dizzying green blur of the grass underneath his feet. And all through his body, endless energy sparking and flashing through him, flashing through bone and sinew--

\--and the Master has to kiss him, strengthen the connection, to drink in the entirety of the experience, the thrill of running as fast as a cheetah, faster than any Time Lord, even the twinge of frustration at having to _hold back_ in order not to outrun Mirza. Few things are new to someone a thousand years old, as new and as thrilling and exciting; for one who walks in eternity, few things can make one feel like a virgin again. The Master shivers all throughout, the Doctor's power coiling and curving inside him, stirring him into full wakefulness, into soft, drunken arousal. With a satisfied sigh, the Master pulls back from the kiss.

"Are you ready for tonight?"

The Doctor laces his fingers with the Master's, smirking. "I've been waiting for it a long time. Will you be gentle?"

The Master brushes his lips across the Doctor's and shakes his head, laughing into the Doctor's mouth. "It will hurt." He dips into the Doctor's mind and sends him an image, of the Doctor underneath him, shivering, his face pressed into the pillows in a silent cry. The Doctor moans into the Master's mouth in delight, his--their--inner gaze focusing on the sight the Master is sending him: that of the Doctor's left shoulder. And there, the new _miim_ , remade on the fresh new skin of his body by the Master's hand, finished except for the last few curves the Master will cut into his flesh tonight. 

It's time. The Master pulls the robes off the Doctor's body, greedily, pressing and dragging every square inch of his palms over the Doctor's skin. The ritual had left him perfect, perfect, so beautiful he looks slightly unreal, with not a single blemish on his skin. And it's his new skin the Master devours with his eyes, his hands, his kisses, an entirely new playground, his personal god, _his._ He made this, _they_ made this, they created such perfection together it terrifies him and thrills him, his erection brushing against the Doctor's thigh as the Doctor divests him of his robes and covers him in kisses in turn. His caresses are familiar and yet not familiar, like those of someone new, beyond what a regeneration can bring: his movements are softer, longer, more rounded than they used to be, and yet his reflexes are faster than ever before, so attuned to his surroundings it's as if he moves either slowed down or speeded up. His kisses are fuller, his mouth and his hips moving in arcs so mathematically perfect it makes the Master ache, his fingers so fast on the drawstring on his shalwars he doesn't even realise the Doctor has undone them until they pool at his knees. 

"Turn around," he breathes, even as he rubs up against the Doctor, so eager to sink into him, his mind dipping softly into the Doctor's and withdrawing, so eager he groans in loss as the Doctor lets go and turns to lie down on his stomach. He has to pin the Doctor down, groan again into his back, his cock between the Doctor's buttocks as he picks up the peacock knife, trembling for the brief, delicious seconds before the first cut. The Doctor's hearts thrum against his chest through his ribcage, the Doctor's buttocks tighten against his cock, and it kills him to feel the way the Doctor _quivers,_ even centuries after their first play, even centuries after the Master first made him cry out in pleasure and pain.

A cut, two cuts, and artron swirls lash out from the wounds on the Doctor's shoulder, swirling onto the Master's greedy tongue as he laps them up, swallows them down like wine. But even more delicious are the Doctor's cries, the way his back arches underneath the Master's stomach with the muscle tone of a dancer. And with every cry, with every little spark of pleasure the Doctor sends to the Master, time judders around them, elongating the Master's own movements so the knife sinks into the Doctor's flesh more slowly, the Doctor's own cries stretching a millisecond here, a hundredth of a second there, prolonging his own pleasure. And with an equal intensity, time snaps back and the Doctor cries out again as the cuts heal, seal into the shape of the Master's initial, the one the Doctor had begged to be re-carved into his flesh. _The most powerful being in the universe,_ the Master thinks, _and he wants to be claimed, wants to be mine, mine._ He reels, his cock wetter, harder between the Doctor's buttocks, his knife crueller upon the Doctor's back as he makes small cut after small cut, too small to make permanent marks but enough to send their arousal spiralling higher and higher as he cuts and sucks and cuts and sucks. 

"We're going to change the world, you and I," he purrs, and the Doctor echoes the thought back, back, washing through him, so exquisite it hurts. "Yes," the Doctor breathes, and washes over the Master again in a flood of visions, of banners, horses, spears, triumph, time groaning as they push it this way and that, reshaping history in their own image. And the Master can't take it, can't, dips his hand into the oil awaiting beside the bed and makes himself slick. "Tell me more," he rasps, "more," as he rocks himself inside the Doctor, as the Doctor's thoughts rock inside him in turn.

The Doctor clutches the sheets and the knife falls from the Master's hand, falls as he himself falls inside the Doctor's mind. "Genghis," the Doctor whispers, and the Master sees him fall, sees the hordes fall, sees libraries rise from the ashes, the ink from drowned books being sucked out of the Tigris back onto the pages they belong. The rivers turn green again, the land green from the desert it will never turn into, children chasing each other in green gardens that were to become their graves.

Oh, the sentiment, and such sweet sentiment, and the Master sobs into the Doctor's shoulder as he feels time reordering itself, the Doctor's thoughts themselves bringing the change closer, making it more real, more concrete. And he sobs again as the Doctor pushes back onto him, burning hot, so full of energy it hurts to fuck him, the heat of the artron sparking through the Master's own cock, into his own body, filling him and lashing through him. All this, and more they will make, take; they will ride into victory as gods, with the Doctor beside him, and they will shine bright, brighter than a thousand suns.

"More," the Master cries out again, thrusting harder and faster into the Doctor, clutching at his chest. And the banners become redder, the rivers greener, and there, there, the Doctor and the Master themselves, triumphant. Crowds cheer at them as they greet them from their palace, of spires, glass, domes, a new Gallifrey of their own making, and the Master buries himself into the Doctor with a fierce cry of joy. "More," he begs, and the Doctor floods him with artron, opens himself in body and mind, pierces the Master's every cell with his dream, their dream, no, _reality._ It's happening Now. He sees them, together, reaching out through the stars, a thousand ships, a thousand streams of light unravelling as ribbons throughout time and space. The universe, theirs for the taking, and the Doctor pulls the Master into himself, pulls him apart, a myriad lights exploding in ecstasy until he can see no more. There's but darkness, sweet, joyful darkness, and the echo of "Effendim".

"Effendim," the Doctor whispers, "Effendim," as he turns underneath the Master and kisses him and kisses him, never sated, never tired, never anyone's but his. He closes the Master in his embrace and dances his hands over the Master's skin, little tendrils of fire over every muscle, sending aftershocks of _I love you_ through every nerve. _I love you,_ he whispers with his hands, his mind, his lips, _I love you._

 _I love you,_ the Master ruts against the Doctor's stomach as he stretches in his arms, _Ushaq._

Slowly, slowly, time sinks into its tracks as they lay there, yet the Master knows it has already changed, knows the hostile envoys they have come to meet have already fallen, knows his own banners are streaming above the hills in triumph. And there, he sees himself and the Doctor, majestic upon their golden horses, haloed in the light of a new morning, a new world.

And it's then that a pair of little paws swat at the Doctor's hair and little teeth sink into it with a fierce, high-pitched growl.

"Ow! Hey!" And it's then the most magnificient, powerful creature in the universe is undone by a cheetah cub. The Master can't help but laugh, laugh as the cub climbs over the Doctor's face, the Doctor sputtering in indignation, Mirza chirping in approval by the side of the bed. The Master pets the cub's head, not even attempting to pull it off the Doctor. He's laughing too hard to try, in any case, as the Doctor spits hair from his mouth, some of it his own.

The Doctor finally manages to wrestle the cub off the bed, returning it to its mother. "I swear, these three will grow up to be the most spoilt cats in the universe." 

Mirza returns, and takes the cub by the scruff. It flails its little legs briefly, then goes still in its mother's hold. She takes it and plops it with its siblings, then curls around them protectively. They are still young, and they seek her warmth and milk and settle in to rest.

The Master thinks his hearts will burst, from the love in the Doctor's face. He rests his cheek against the Doctor's shoulder, his lips against the miim. He kisses it, tasting the healing skin, the trickles of artron. His mark upon an unmarkable being. Except that's not true, because it is the Doctor's hearts that are marked by him most of all, the Master at the center of him, as the Doctor is at the center of the Master. They will never be separate now, never be apart. With all the stars between them, they will still touch.

The Doctor turns against him, pulling him close, pressing him back. The Doctor smiles, warm and welcoming and joyful, and full of love for him.

All the stars of the universe within them, all the vastness of time before them. It humbles him anew, every time he touches Eternity in the Doctor's skin. He is humbled, yet unafraid. Not afraid, because everything he will ever need is here, warm beneath his cheek, upon their bed.

Let the universe spread itself before them. Let Time bow herself deep in supplication. They will be taken into Eternity, when the Doctor's hands reach for them. For now, for now, he seeks the Doctor's lips, the weight of him pressing the Master down into their bed. For now, these earthy delights will do. They will take the heavens together, all in good time.

THE END


End file.
